In the Beginning

Autumn sprung 

with colourful leaves:

red, bronze, orange and golden,

and the flowers were generous,

they donated their colours for a bit;

"Do you know that leaves are living things?"

Mother's voice came grudgingly

from memories long forgotten,

(I was five);

Crunching my way across 

the sunset rug,

I recall and bend,

touching a few small ones gently,

they were too young to have fallen

like all the others;

There was one though, 

frail, 

like an old lady

after her chemotherapy,

tired and scared,

with bright smiling eyes,

waiting for some well-earned peace;

I run across the russet spread,

still clutching the shrivelled small leaf 

in my hand,

not so small anymore,

I could have crushed it in my hand

with a satisfying crunch;

I gently set it in the book:

"She felt the abyss of disenchantment.” 

©Geetakshi Arora

April 21, 2014