The leaf

A soft, delicate and pale-green bud pops up from a bough and grows into a thick, wide and darkened leaf.

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Its tender stalk makes a sturdy branch in age. And from there sprouts seven other outgrowths - one after the other.
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The leaf outlives storms and droughts, but not its hues. It turns yellow, gold and orange. Its grip fails; it falls to the ground. The sun smiles at it. The moist is lost; its weight, light. It browns and it burns.
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The white smoke rises and kisses the leaves still green and clinging. It goes up to the blue and turns into a cloud. It rains down drizzles; the leaves wash off dust from its faces. Drops drip; roots sip all.
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It roams in the veins of the trunk and branches; and it exits through the pores of the foliage as pure air.
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It ascends the heavens; and the Big Nose finally breathes it in.

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