The yellow leaf

The yellow leaf

The spectators loom on an New England autumn day
"to be in New England in autumn",
is what they say.
the spectators loom.
Leaves always seem to fall just right.
They will twirl just so: in the air, in a calm floatation of peace.
not this. The yellow is what the spectators see;
just a seldom few--grasp the pattern off the falling leaf.
a small child circling in the background goes unnoticed--
his curly hair is just a backdrop.
He spiritedly ruffles with dead leaves.
The yellow fluttering maple leaf will continue to drift to the blocked cement floor.
The child does not care of the yellow,
he cares about the ruffling. He smiles, continuing to absorb the dead.
He loves the dead.
The brown. The lost parts of the adored yellow tree.
oh the adored.
how they adore it.
as the men and the women stare and stare; the boy tangos with the
lost prize,
and the falling fluttering yellow leaf finally gently lays down;
its decided spot is two feet behind the boy who
loves dead leaves.
he turns around; he sees the yellow leaf.
He does not smile.
A swift kick, is all today.
This leaf deserves just as his fallen brothers....
it flutters in the air again; but just briefly, and falls on to a pile of brown.
The boy smiles wide; as wide as he has smiled all day.
the fluttering bright leaf is soon to be brown.
The spectators point at the yellow leaves
which will soon be brown.