How simple it is for a tree to discard its leaves once the cold shrouds its heart.

There would be a brief exchange, I imagine. The leaf, realising that its days are numbered, turns every colour of the sunset in its last scrap of sustained energy, fighting to hold onto the life it knew, wondering,

Was it me?
Was it me?
Was it me?

Was I not enough? Or too much?

Did it cling, beg, break down? Did it protest its way through the seven stages of grieving, clinging and weeping and praying to the wind for stability, begging to exist outside of time, protesting every change before it finally accepted that trees.like.that don’t change?

Did it wake one morning with a new kind of clarity – acceptance re-framing every thought and every decision it ever made as it slowly becomes conscious that every last breath was numbered?

Did it then simply snap its fragile stem, and float to the ground, quietly and without ceremony, as it drifted in circles to oblivion, rebirth, god knows what?

Or, did it celebrate every fiery hue, every crinkle and misshapen edge, every imperfection that still warmed the hearts of passersby, sagely serving as a reminder that our time here is fleeting and that our colours are our legacy and that

it was enough for some and too much for others and it was