Last Year’s Leaves
Spring. And last years’ leaves litter the earth.
Crackly and dry under your feet.
Here and there a single leaf retains its autumn color.
It is easy to miss them this time of year.
Your eyes are so focused on the fresh green
of a spring being born in front of your eyes,
lifting your gaze skyward, to the limbs
to the wide spread trees around you,
to the promise of blue skies.
But last year’s leaves are still there,
breaking apart with every step you take,
debris of past seasons, and yet
more than that, fodder, food,
slowly rotting into earth, unnoticed
except by its absence.
About this poem
About the forest floor. About our own pasts that we so often try to put behind us.
Tom
Quarry House 
Our past makes us who we are, even when we try to leave it behind. One can never quite achieve this, in my experience.
Those last 2 stanzas – so true for human seasons of maturing. Good to read, reflect on all that’s crumbled in my past as fodder for where I find myself now. Thanks!