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A Leaf, Just Right
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The leaf rested on the back of the bench, like a traveler borrowing a stop for the night.
When the wind passed, it quivered slightly, but didn’t leave.
I couldn’t help but wonder—was it waiting for someone too?
It was no longer new. Through the turning of seasons, it had grown from a shy spring bud into a full-formed leaf.
The wind had brushed it, the rain had struck it.
A bird had once rested beside it; an insect had once left tiny marks upon it.
But it never complained—it simply kept growing, greening, waiting.
Was there any meaning in all this? Perhaps not.
It wasn’t searching for one, nor trying to earn anyone’s gaze.
It simply did as it was made to do—without hesitation, without demands.
It lived plainly, purely, without clutter of thought—
as if quietly showing us how to live a little lighter.
It never dreamed of becoming “spring mud to nourish flowers.”
All it cared about was the now.
Maybe its meaning lay in how it chose to show itself—
to make its brief life valuable,
to be, however ordinary, a leaf with its own quiet dignity.
