I bend over to take away the leaves. I dropped them there because I always do, I never believed them to be anyone's burden. As I take them up, one by one, I twirl them by the stem between my forefinger and my thumb. They're pretty, they're copper, they're red and they're brown. I never crackle them anymore, as a child would crunch them between her hands to hear the noise, I guess it would only leave more of a mess on the steps.
If only they knew. If only they knew...
I'm no longer a child, these leaves were from bent birches. The birches I bent in my youth. They fell as words often fall from the lips of loquacious Lilliputians onto the ears of their fathers, silently, or misunderstood. Their delightful dance with gravity not correctly interpreted, or even considered, for even a moment. They were called a mess. They told me to clean up my mess. I'm cleaning up my mess.
As I look on the last leaf with little sympathy, I remind myself to remember it's intent. It was meant to please, not perturb. I close my eyes, I sigh, I stand.
I crush the leaf and give it to the wind.
