I feel the pull to the underside
of leaves—their hidden faces
hide true and dark among 
the glowing edges. One 
must always turn the leaves
over to see their wrinkled 
smiles, the veins that captured
and transformed light
into power. Do you not
feel powerful ripping
along these ribbed folds?
Unkempt and impossible
to predict, each crisp zig
and jagged zag slice—slippery
with sunlight—into the wind,
separating gusts from gasps
and greening their delicate
smiles. Like me, they fly off
if so provoked; each season
predicts their evolution but,
ultimately, their grips on
the branch and onto the sun—
for life and nourishment
of the whole—is what keeps
them. Wholly I believe in
their choice to choose
to loosen and leave—as I am
slowly doing the same,
plummeting with our great
star, plummeting dimmer
with each descending
hour.