A desert wind blows across suburban lawns
shaking leaves from the branches
their limbs
their trees
their roots.
Cast loose from their moorings
the suburban leaves drift from their homes
and fall.
Some fall to the ground by the tree that bore them
Some are lost in the seas of sand
Some are lost at sea.
They drift on the wind.
They drift on the sea.
They drift on the sand.
And the old trees, draped in yellow cry out
in the ancient voices of loving ancestors
“Little leaf, come marching home.
Brave, little leaf please come marching home.”

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