A small and crumpled leaf unfurled
lay at the mountain’s peak,
its edges cast with newborn frost
in silver, tiny streaks.

The wind had carried it on high
to rest upon the verge,
a monument to winter’s rule,
of the cold and bitter purge.

Its fate hinged on the coming dawn,
the whim of happenstance,
the churning of the fatal wind,
the blind and neutral Chance.

What became of it I never knew,
as I was called away,
back to warmth and comfort where,
I forever more shall stay.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s