I try to imagine the day my leaf was sprouted… a tender, teeny-weeny being bathed in the soft sun of a tropical winter! And now I try to shed a drop of tear for it, for the poor being is at the very end of its journey. The last trace of green has been wrung out of it. Soon it will shrivel up. (Thankfully, I’ll not!)
Leaves, and writing, have such a life cycle this way.