By: Annapurani Vaidyanathan

The last leaf
on the solitary maple tree
in my backyard
sways gently,
wondering why
it must want
to hang in there.
For, the scent of shiuli flowers
and the pine trunks around,
hardly allure it now.
It is lost
in dreams of
setting itself free,
and flitting away into the yonder.
There are new sunrises
it yearns to see –
in Mount Sinai,
in the Grand Canyon, in Tres Cruces,
in Hawaii.
It hopes to, some day,
become a cherished fragment
of the songbird’s nest –
lilting delicately
to the passerine’s lullaby
at nights.
There are folktales
from the West
it has a growing appetite for,
which it secretly fancies to live,
before
it is left unattended on the ground to rot,
or
burnt to cinders under an earthy, Welsh pot.
The northern wind gushes in
on cue, like it were watching
the withering leaf’s beckoning,
and with a tiny, nonchalant jerk,
scoops it into its arms.
While it floats away
merrily,
into the blue,
it crumples,
just a bit,
around the corners,
as if winking
at a faraway, forlorn Sue,
telling her
it isn’t bidding adieu,
only moving on,
seeking adventures new.