Most of the snow falls on the ground,
but a few would drop on seemingly chosen leaves.
Somewhere, somehow, the winter wind has got
all the answer.
Climbing the sky,
I wish to see where the wind blows.
But being a small leaf – a chosen leaf – I guess,
the leaf should feel content of being weak and fragile.
And climbing the sky becomes a dream,
only to remember.
One day at a time,
one leaf must bear the chill of snowdrops.
At times so heavy, at times so cold, at times so tender.
…not to mention the endless blow of the wind,
or should I say the screaming silence of winter?
The ticking time is faithful.
Nevertheless, spring is never too far away
for those who learn the humility of being patient.
The leaf – the fragile leaf – should be able
to breathe again.
Yes with scars here and there,
but scars that tell wisdom.
The wisdom of winter.