Leaves

How so much like the palm of a hand the veins of a leaf, I gather from the forest floor, reading the many births and deaths – much like our own whites, grays and silvers, the rustic golds and yellows, small patches of surviving greens – I think of my youth: all the trails travelled pressed deep within, like the trees my many seasons of shedding and changing colors – I leave, careful not to trample too many memories, whistling bird songs, planning my return when butterfly wings, and bees are again sweetly buzzing....