A falling leaf whisks the air,
Mixing it as it passes through.
It lands below and remains there,
The air swirling above.
Next the leaf starts to grow old,
Rotten orange, holey grey,
Corners start to bend and fold,
The air still swirls above.
Finally it all decays,
Scatters into little parts.
The strange thing is, in many ways,
This leaf, it represents me.
It has a good life, does this leaf,
Theres lots to like about it.
It lives a life with ,yes, some grief,
Coping with winds and snows.
Eventually, it dies, falls down,
And leaves a mark behind it.
Takes a while to reach the ground,
And the air, it swirls above.
So I should be happy because
I am living, I am alive.
I should know that, yes, I am good,
Can cope with winds and snows.
And even whenever I die
I know that I can leave my mark.
All I need do is whisk the air,
And it will swirl above.