The winter-soaked autumn leaves, drying fast from the inescapable light of the klieg light sun, began an unwillful tumbling across the cornfield, fallow and dank, at the impatient prodding of an impertinent spring breeze.
Everything has its time, sighed the aged, wind worn, naked oak.
Everything, sooner, later, regardless of desire, must go.
But many of the leaves would not go, at least not yet. They would, in their need to continue to be, in their yearning to remain, find things to grasp at, to cling to, to wrap themselves wholeheartedly around: the dry and brittle stubs of stalks, standing stiff in their own persistent grasp at relevance, were the leaves’s only, last, hope.
In each other, their final purpose.
In each other, their temporal salvation.