Leaves
Born of the sunlight,
cracking bud coccoons
they stretch and fill their veins like butterflies.
Tethered to the tree that bore them,
they do not take wing
but they can dance, ecstatic
in the first wild gusts of spring.
They revel in their newness, playing
with the wind a whispered symphony in green.
They must make the most of these times
for, unlike the tree, they soon grow old.
Autumn gives them one last flourish,
painting them in red and brown and gold
but soon the wind that was their friend
will tear them from their homes
and then, at last
the leaves will learn to fly