Order is not the absence of chaos, or so the wisdom of leaves is saying.
In leaves at random seemingly growing, across the sky a tapestry weaving.
Leaves turning into a canopy of gold, dancing, in the sun sparkling.
In every direction for life seeking, where limbs and fingers are pointing.
When growing old and falling, onto the arms of youth momentarily holding.
And when leaves come to rest, to where there is no chaos they’re finally going.