She fell laughing, bright and wild,
a sliver of green defiance loosed
from the cradle of the bough.
Below, the Pond waited-
ancient, patient, full of every ending.

She whispered in stillness, come.
The Leaf trembled upon Her skin,
afraid to love what could not rise,
afraid to stay above what knew all depths.

The Pond held Her in reflection,
drinking Her color until dawn dimmed.
But the Leaf was born of the sun,
and the Pond could only mirror light.

When the wind rose, She spun away-
a brief, bright wound upon Her surface.
The Pond closed around Her shadow,
and kept it.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 6th of Ivolnos, in the year 14 AC.