On a leaf

What manner of thing is it that falls into repose? Sometimes green. Sometimes brown. It finds a range of colors in between. Neither dead or alive, of organic nature but not that alone, it is a thing of life and harbinger of sleep. Stationary at times, it takes less than the motion of a stick to send it flying. In piles higher than the tallest man each one sits upon another, a house of cards comprising a mattress of air into which you, with peals of laughter, could jump. From the branches of the trees to the tilled earth's moist ferment, it surprises with lessons about the seasons, and in absence is felt most of all. A winter for the soul with only a budding promise that soon - soon! - there will be color again.