There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.

In the fall of leaves,In the hustle of breeze,In the curve of streams, I foresee,Nature keeps more concealed,Than it lets us peep!

In every change, in every falling leaf there is some pain, some beauty. And that's the way new leaves grow.

Fallen leaves on the ground are the golden song of immortal creativity.

Why?"He stopped pacing and looked at her as if she'd just asked him to count every leaf on every tree in the Old Place. "Because... you're you.

Feelings are real. They often become one’s reality. But they are not always based on truth.

Perfection"Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind.Every star-thistle has a thorn.Every flower has a blemish.Every wave washes back upon itself.Every ocean embraces a storm.Every raindrop falls with precision.Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail.Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn.Every tree-frog is obligated to sing.Every sound has an echo in the canyon.Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor.Creation's whispered breath at dusk comeswith a frost and leaves within dawn's faint mist,for all of existence remains perfect, adorned,with a dead sparrow on the ground.(Poem titled : 'Perfection' by R.H.Peat)

Living things don't all requirelight in the same degree. Some of usmake our own light: a silver leaflike a path no one can use, a shallowlake of silver in the darkness under the great maples.But you know this already.You and the others who thinkyou live for truth and, by extension, loveall that is cold.

The journey may be fraught with challenges, yet it continues, for even the smallest leaf must embrace destiny...Persistence is the key...

This was all in the making, a long time ago. You had as much control over these events as a leaf does in the time of its falling.

Your initiatives should be purposeful. Never climb a tree with the purpose of plucking a fruit, only to come down with a leaf.

Every tree in the forest has a story to tell. Some of them were burnt but they endured the fire and got revived; some of them were cut, their barks injured, some people pick up their leaves to make medicines for their sicknesses, birds used their leaves to make their nests, etc. Upon all these, the tree is still tree!

When the time has come, every leaf turns to face the sun!

Secrets are foolish creatures, I have learned. No longer do I wish to play with fools.

He was like an autumn without leaves, he was unreal!

Because this exact leaf had to grow in that exact way, in that exact place, so that precise wind could tear it from that precise branch and make it fly into this exact face at that exact moment. And, if just one of those tiny little things had never had happened, I'd never have met ya. Which makes this leaf the most important leaf in human history

And I wonder how the leaves clinched to the branches, yet to fall, the survivors feel when they see one of their own perish and realise that they too are to share a similar fate, does this thought cause them to give up selflessly, from confinement to independence or does it instil proportions of both courage and fear making them hold on as long as they can and accept what comes after?

I am just a leaf. Just a leaf falling from the tree so that a new bud may grow.

I've lived to see my longings die"I've lived to se my longings die:My dreams and I have grown apart;Now only sorrow haunts my eye,The wages of a bitter heart.Beneath the storms of hostile fate,My flowery wreath has faded fast;I live alone and sadly waitTo see when death will come at last.Just so, when the winds in winter moanAnd snow descends in frigid flakes,Upon a naked branch, alone,The final leaf of summer shakes!

Only with a leafcan I talk of the forest,

Every falling leaf reminds me that I too will soon be separated from these trees. Trying to capture freedom is like trying to catch a falling leaf. Occasionally you may grab one out of the air and hold it in your hands, but now what?

I was drinking in the surroundings: air so crisp you could snap it with your fingers and greens in every lush shade imaginable offset by autumnal flashes of red and yellow.

As the leaves randomly fell, she contemplated how they sacrificially gave up their essence to sustain new life. Or was it the tree’s sacrifice? Each leaf was a part of Gaia’s play. Their final act: to decompose so a new level of soil could be made, an earthen writing tablet for the next layer of history to be recorded. One generation became the groundwork for the next. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Nothing was exempt, not even the leaves.

Secrets upon secrets were weaving into a strange and mysterious fabric that would ultimately clothe his future.

Their leafy whispers delighted her, and she promised her confidentiality by gently touching the trunks of both trees. They had held her secrets close to their hearts, she could do no less.

Multi-colored lights flashed and glared on the wet road and cast eerie reflections, reminiscent of artistic surrealism. Fillion imagined that his distress and anger swirled and moved with the refracted lights, creating an urban masterpiece of demented fury.

The scenic route was a paved graveyard of dreams, but Fillion hoped his would rise from the ashes, marking the moment when he would finally own his life.

Leaf felt buried beneath the remains of their prior life, the ashes coating every part of who he thought he was in this community.