An oak leaf took flight with his petiole up,
lobes swilling the fresh air, arms wide open.
A gentle wind drove him through the country,
made him fall in love with firs, beeches, maples.
They too, belong to one home, they too, fall down
on their own. No shapes, no colours can outwit
the time. What matters is how strong the leaves
hold onto others before their bodies whisper
good morning to the snowdrops, oblige them to ascend,
holding their angel wings together over a green back.