Fig Leaf

A fig leaf skitters to your feet.
Imagine, for a moment, where it has been,
What beauty, what atrocity, it has seen,
And why it is before you.
Wizened, nominal, forgotten— it is, as they say,
A picture of autumn in its dying breath—
And what care is it to you, or even to the tree
That once lent its branch?
It was destine to fall, to wander, and
One fine morning come to rest
In some vacant field,
Where it will be taken far below
To rise as fresh soil, new life, new day,
And lend its feeble hand back to the tree,
Which will grow new leafs in posterity,
As not to take its life in vain.
Though the dilemma remains,
Why you? Why it? Why now?
And the answer lies in uncertainty,
For which there is no answer,
Only admiration.
So I ask again:
Why the leaf before your feet?
Was it the premonition of your
Unalterable tie to death,
For which we are all leaves
Fading into the abysmal end,
Or, for some, an even greater sorrow,
For which Hamlet was the prophet.
Or perhaps, it was the slight distraction
Of infinitesimal discrepancy, that such a leaf
Can bring, that made us wonder:
Why this, why now, why me,
And stopped the passerby a step before
Death’s Angel knocked against their door.
This I often wonder at home, alone,
With only my poetry, my thoughts, my conscience;
How a word could be the difference between
My end, or if it is, indeed,
The very home I see
That will crumble above me.
As it is before, and will always be,
The answer lies in uncertainty.
For now it is only a leaf—
Trotting slowly.
Searching freely.

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