What the Leaves Kept Quiet

What the Leaves Kept Quiet

Under a softened sky, they rest without complaint,

no rush left in them, no need to cling to branch or height,

only the memory of light moving through their bodies,

only the slow surrender that feels almost like relief.

Some still carry green deep in their centres,

as if they have not fully agreed to let go,

while others have turned to warm gold and dimmed amber,

accepting what comes without needing to understand it.

Time moved through them long before this moment,

in rain that lingered, in heat that pressed and held,

in wind that spoke in low voices through their edges,

teaching them something no living hand could teach.

There is no drama in how they came to ground,

no desperate reach back toward what they have left,

only a quiet settling into something wider than loss,

as though the earth had been waiting all along.

Standing there, it becomes harder to ignore,

that same quiet turning lives beneath the skin,

that same slow release waits somewhere unseen,

not as an ending, but as a shift we cannot stop.

What they leave behind is not emptiness,

it is a space that feels strangely complete,

a softness where struggle once tried to take hold,

a calm that arrives without asking permission.

Nothing about it feels wasted or taken too soon,

only changed into something that cannot be named,

something that no longer needs to hold its shape,

something that simply becomes part of everything else.

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