Falling Leaves

The forest isn’t silent, not really
Falling leaves twist in the wind
Crinkling as they descend
Their echoes bouncing from branch to branch
In a secret language of changing seasons, color

The pine needle floor fades my footfalls to
A whisper of a memory as the path behind disappears
In the diminishing sunlight

I understand how one gets lost in the forest
I know why one so chooses