Chosen

I believe in being chosen by leaves.
Or rather, by God, who threaded roots,
ignited each branch tip with the spark
of autumn. He knew what would fall
on my head. So when a flame brushes
my counted hairs, I steal it. Read
the veins and expect to be understood.

I scour for a reflection in maple-red hues
or eyes in copper oak, while my own fill
with logs. I wait for His burning finger
to write a language I’ll know.
The scroll doesn’t always unfurl,

so I take the leaf and flatten it, hide it
under a stack of books I’ve never read,
praying the day I crease the last spine
is the one I need a leaf the most.

Pages, once trees, are numbered,
reminding me: The One who
moves the wind also moves my feet.
So yes, I believe the leaf
chose me. Or rather, God made me
someone who notices things that fall.

This article appears in February 2026.