It was a flailing leave in the cold winter wind, that called me softly as I walked huddled under my clothes, 'would you mind stopping by for a word sir, you see I am all bored and cold', it said.
Encumbered by my sense of duty to all the lonely's of the world, I couldn't move my tongue to utter a no, and instead acquiesced with a little nod of my head.
We spoke of winds and we spoke of stems, of the things that wanted us to move and the things that kept us grounded.
We argued about the sun and its wicked ways, shining bright in sweltering heat and disappearing in the oppressing cold.
We agreed about the constancy of love and its changing faces, and passionately argued our right to be loved by everyone.
We called each other names, comparing notes on the wisdom we had gained. I called the leave pathetically rooted and immobile, while it called me a vagabond wanderer of little use.
The leaf said something about arrogance and humility, which I did not really listen to- and it held that up as a sign of my arrogance. Since I am the humble one, any aspersion on my humility irritates me, so pat I shot back- why do you choose to be green when the rest of the tree is brown?
And then the night it started to fall- much earlier than usual I thought, the darkening clouds and the morose wind made me want to head back home. But I found no opening to bid a decent goodbye, so like always, I lingered more than I ever needed too.
