The Autumn Leaf (Aishnei Bag)
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April 25, 2026
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The emerald fades to a rusted gold,
A story of summer, now brittle and old.
I clung to the branch with a desperate vein,
Through blistering heat and driving rain.
But the North wind whispers a chilling song,
Of a winter rest that is deep and long.
I let go of the height, of the sky so blue,
To dance in a spiral, a descent anew.
I am not falling—I’m learning to fly,
A brilliant scrap of a sunset sky.
To carpet the roots that gave me my start,
And sleep in the earth with a quiet heart.
