Somehow a dead leaf got tracked inside.
I didnâ€™t ask from whom or whence it came,
Only wondered, if I did nothing, would it remain.
The more I thought the less I did,
Philosophyâ€™s contribution to underbid.
The leaf, brown and crisp and stale and old
Was passed by everyone and disregarded,
Perhaps preparation for the coming cold,
Summerâ€™s dreams now retarded,
Yesterdayâ€™s heat burned away.
Nothing young can remain that way,
Merely born again everyday.