I am ground-bound and browned as I lay on the air as I am guided to soil.
My colors are my ways. My colors are my days with you.
Shades of brown hold the dimensions of my culture.
The yellows are the flowers, sunlight, and softness in your face when you press against my weathered person.
Reds are of your warmth, of your love, of your hands, of your glance.
Reds are the passion, fear, comfort, and freedom within my core when you are near.
I am nestled in the fortitude of your earthly, grounded, able, and generous profundity.
Grace is innocence, purity, novelty, fantasy, ignorance, naivety; quite the quintessence of childhood.
Grace was my home, the skyward roots from which I fell.
The here and now is the ground; the base where every life shall know stasis, solitude, and finality.
Now I am brittle and quite in your hands. The wind taunts and wants to carry me away that I may to ashes become.
Yet, your gentility shields me.
My vibrant colors are my nervousness, and hope.
You have found me in this fallen state, not despite my golden-red oxidation, but because of it.
You allow my shades, my feelings, and my temperament.
For my wizened depth, darkness, light, and breadth, you love me.
I am humbled to know the tactile of your openness, the wash if your cleansing heart, the waves that crash withing your eyes, and the music of your mind.
I am the falling leaf, and you are the book whose pages keep me safe.