We Are Leaves

We, the leaves that cling so brightly to our body
that once we were a part of
and bloomed willingly cohesive in the sun.
The sun still touches our arms
but we are cold
and apart, having been spurned
and scorned
for lives lived
in bright colors.
Still we cling
or else fall in the trampling shadows
of concrete pavement.
We are no longer wanted.
We are dead or dying,
yet stubborn and hanging high
on the tree
of which we are a part
without acknowledgment.