Leaf found himself having been born. With a memory. Of wind and soil. From the wind, his sisters and brothers whispered to him. From the soil, they sang.
Leaf’s nerves were roots, his roots nerves. He grew into his world. Seven years passed.
Someone died. Leaf bent inwards. A mist lowered itself in-between the outer and inner world. Leaf fell asleep. The contours of things, their boundedness, grew distinct. Leaf’s body suffered. He hit bottom. He became successful. The identity of things hardened more.
A rain cried, like tears. Leaf stirred in his sleep. He opened one eye. He saw the sea. Another. The sky. His nerves opened. He was in a forest. From the wind and soil, his siblings whispered and sang.
Leaves make the wind talk. They let sunlight through, yet they shadow. The wind takes them flying. They know how to fall. They burn in old age. They know how to die. They form a numberless army, all living through each.
Leaf remembered being born. He began to burn. He rose from the dead, because he was alive.