The Dance of Dead Leaves (Poem)

I see my fallen brothers
Strewn all around me;
Some carried by the caring wind
To a better resting place
While others lay where they are,
In the company of corpses.

We have no names:
Our identity is collective.
We’ve lived our lives
Serving our common tree.

But we’re no longer useful,
So we’re left to die;
To be trampled upon,
Our services forgotten,
And our positions taken.

Yet we regret none of it.
Not at all.
Sure we’re unsung
But we’ve existed for a far greater cause
And if nothing else,
We’re a minor loss.