More About the Fall Leaves

On this morning, the rain is less audible because there are fewer leaves. What few leaves do exist are yellow-brown and their stems are stubborn. They hang on and the rain, bow-tied, tap dances all over them trying to wake them up, Sun trying to feed them but they won't take. The leaves are wise, wrinkled, and quiet- they've seen it all before.

In my utopia, we'd all throw on our coats and gloves and run outside, grab the closest leaves and one by one resuscitate them, because we love Summer and Fall so much, and because (of course) we all have neat magical powers... :)

But in this world, the dying leaf looks around and seeing we're all helpless and content with Winter, lets itself go, to join a pile, to be crunched underfoot, or to simply surrender itself beneath a bed-blanket of white.

My eyes survey the scene. I am like rain, the leaves ignore my plea. The leaves know more than me.