No one escapes dead leaves;
even the equinox of spring
sees them settled among startled scenery,
released from winter's grip
to tickle tops of grass shoots,
greener than a goblin's eye.
There they lie, curling to a crisp
beneath weak and listless sunshine.
In Autumn's fall, cascading
through gusting winds, some are left behind,
too frail to fly, rolled into compost
or trapped beneath a hedge.
These are the fossil leaves
that claim their earth
in a cool March breeze,
when all the rest have fled.