This ironically came out of me while walking through the concrete jungle (Bangkok). Weird.
Leaves fall from above
Taking with them shards of shade
Allowing the sun to poke through.
They pattern the ground
in their own scheme, their own design
Shaping, shifting in the slightest wind
A breathing mosaic,
Alive in these brittle castaways.
their each move is a dance
in all of time
never performed twice
to only live on in their own memory.
Frail sails without vessels
travel the winds, trading secrets.
they land ashore, leaving imprints
etching lightly into the sand
tales of wonder and wander,
treasure maps to coves undiscovered.
only to be erased by the wind,
each new day a canvas
leaving yesterday forgotten.
