what do we allow to lie, hiding,
in the margins of our silence?
in the sinking absence of all impetus?
autumn leaves change not by choice,
but by necessity,
a silent, inevitable reaction to all time passed,
to all interaction that came before,
an inherent response to the wholeness of their surroundings,
to their experience of living
first, it is a slow loss,
then a maelstrom of many stimuli at once,
eventually becoming the catalyst to something so beautiful and transforming,
it feels extraordinary,
because it is
then, there is a necessary letting go,
a freeing and frightening fall whose landing transforms into something fertile,
something that slowly,
decomposes to feed their own roots,
to prepare them for days to come
what do autumn leaves know that we do not?
what lies in the margins of our silence,
in the delicacy of our awe?