Dry brown leaves
Resting on the forest floor,
Brittle, ¬†thin, lifeless.
Their work is done.
Once they were young,
Fresh, supple, and oh so green,
Open to the sun’s rays
And carrying that sunshine
Straight into the tree,
Bringing the tree exactly what it needs
To live and grow.
And once a leaf’s work is complete,
Its life drains away
And the leaf lets go.
Severed from the tree from which it came,
The¬†tree¬†the leaf fed for many months.
Now the leaf lies shriveled and curled,
Lying among its fellows
On the forest floor.
Yet even in death, the leaf gives life,
Each dead leaf returns to the soil,
To support and feed a new tree,
This time from below.--April Moore