Leaves; my ego, green, on the ground.
Leaves, take deep breaths in the sky, basking.
"The sunshine will not last," I say,
"your veins will not pump so intensely, then."
My roots are not enough for you, so, leave.
Leaves, eventually turning a timid yellow,
a bitter maroon, and finally an aley rust,
easily broken or torn by those not treading
softly, the tear visible only to those who really look.
Leaves, becoming part of the Earth.
Then my roots cannabalistically take the leaves
for what they're worth.