The Littlest Leaf
The Littlest Leaf
He was the littlest leaf on one of the lowest branches of a small maple sapling. The sapling itself was near the edge of the woods adjoining the backyard of a large white house. Towering over it were many large maple trees. The littlest leaf had to struggle for every spot of sunlight that might make its way down through the high canopy of leaves above him.
In the autumn, all of his cousins on the big trees turned many shades of scarlet and crimson. Yet he was still green. Every day more and more of them would flutter down to cover the ground. The people in the white house would come out and collect them into large piles. The children loved to run and jump into the piles.
He was just then beginning to turn color. Like his brothers and sisters on the sapling he became a pale yellow. Not the brilliant colors of his high cousins. The early November rains came with winds from the northeast. One by one his brothers and sisters left him and disappeared onto the floor of the woods.
In late November, the air grew colder. The rain came now as flakes of snow. The wind had taken away every leaf on every tree in sight, except him. Suddenly, a gust stood him on his head. It broke his grasp on the twig and started to lift him. It lifted him higher than the sapling. Higher than the white house. He could now see other houses and other children. Still higher the gust lifted him. He was higher now than every large tree. Up and up the breezes lifted him. Snowflakes danced in the air all about him. He was happy at last.
© Sherman K. Poultney 11 November 1997
He was the littlest leaf on one of the lowest branches of a small maple sapling. The sapling itself was near the edge of the woods adjoining the backyard of a large white house. Towering over it were many large maple trees. The littlest leaf had to struggle for every spot of sunlight that might make its way down through the high canopy of leaves above him.
In the autumn, all of his cousins on the big trees turned many shades of scarlet and crimson. Yet he was still green. Every day more and more of them would flutter down to cover the ground. The people in the white house would come out and collect them into large piles. The children loved to run and jump into the piles.
He was just then beginning to turn color. Like his brothers and sisters on the sapling he became a pale yellow. Not the brilliant colors of his high cousins. The early November rains came with winds from the northeast. One by one his brothers and sisters left him and disappeared onto the floor of the woods.
In late November, the air grew colder. The rain came now as flakes of snow. The wind had taken away every leaf on every tree in sight, except him. Suddenly, a gust stood him on his head. It broke his grasp on the twig and started to lift him. It lifted him higher than the sapling. Higher than the white house. He could now see other houses and other children. Still higher the gust lifted him. He was higher now than every large tree. Up and up the breezes lifted him. Snowflakes danced in the air all about him. He was happy at last.
© Sherman K. Poultney 11 November 1997
posted by skip at 12:16 PM
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