I know a man who sheds leaves.
They grow in his hair, in the bark on his face,
and they drop in the fall
when he shivers in the cold
and they rustle out of his sleeves.
With his spine slightly bent t'wards the rising sun
he's the stature of an overgrown weed.
And he wobbles in the wind,
digs his roots further in,
and stands firm and stoic as a tree.
He's one with nature, and we pass them both by,
and he does not stop us, but lives his life
as a pebble in the thrashing river.
Why ever would he cling to her,
yet never do a thing on earth
worth his weight
to give her?