Beautifully curling upward
Cupping droplets on its skin
I take my finger, wipe the drop
Leaving a skirmish behind
The autumn leaf is like a heart
Turned toward heaven
Changing colors, singing in its death
I wonder, Leaf, how many songs you have sung?
I wrap myself in a coat of leaves
Stand under a sheltering tree
Sing with the wind
Go to the one who sings over me
Cup my hands, raise them—empty
Here they are, here am I
Am I to be like that last leaf,
Stuck on the tree? Alone?
I am answered,
“You are connected to the vine.”
Water spills over my hands, overflows,
Slips through my fingers.
Photos: Prasanta Verma
Prasanta Verma, a poet, writer, and artist, is a member of The Contemplative Writer team. Born under an Asian sun, raised in the Appalachian foothills, Prasanta currently lives in the Midwest, is a mom of three, and also coaches high school debate. You can find her on Twitter @VermaPrasanta, Instagram prasanta_v_writer, and at her website: https://pathoftreasure.wordpress.com/.