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.