fall

A leaf

Drifts slowly, solemnly

Left to right,

Slightly up and slightly down

The wind catches

Whisking it

High

The wind

It dies 

down 

Slowly fading into nothing

Needed by no one

Wanted by no one.

Then comes someone

An imagineer, 

a historian

Picks it up

Examines it,

Intensely   

Then puts it in a pile

A pile to go back to

But of course,

Like everything

He never does.

The color fades

Time goes on

Never to be thought of again