Twenty-seven leaves linger on the branch above my head.
I can see the sun’s light shimmering behind them,
revealing each vein,
while every shade of green promises possibility.
Joyfully, they flutter in the gentle breeze.
Worlds of hope, of life
in each and every one.
The winds change.
Clouds accumulate beyond the sun.
Bit by bit, each and every leaf steadily separates from the branch.
At their individually designated times, they flutter to the Earth.
Each and every leaf unfulfilled and lifeless.
Suddenly, the winds roar once more. A single leaf is lifted above the rest, seeming to take flight.
At last! Could this be? Surely, this one is the promised completion.
And yet…
as suddenly as it surged, the winds abate.
The singular leaf resumes it previous trajectory.
Empty-handed, she drifts to the forest floor, joining her sisters in their now lifeless forms.
Twenty-seven join the earlier one hundred twenty-two.
The promise of each decaying,
without advancement or fulfillment,
into the nothingness of oblivion.
How does this portray me?
With ache and tear, does this devalue or remove my womanhood?
Twenty-seven have passed, joining the ones before.
How many more remain?
