I read it in first grade and it accelerated the development of a profound sense of consciousness and independent thinking and fortified my existing love for animals/nature/the environment. I was already an overly existential child and it helped me learn to focus on beauty and joy in the face of death and suffering!
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The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow's edge. They were falling from all the trees.
One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.
"It isn't the way it used to be," said one leaf to the other.
"No," the other leaf answered. "So many of us have fallen off tonight we're almost the only ones left on our branch."
"You never know who's going to go next," said the first leaf. "Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who's going to go next."
"The sun seldom shines now," sighed the second leaf, "and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again."
"Can it be true," said the first leaf, "can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?"
"It is really true," whispered the second leaf. "We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers."
"It makes me very sad," added the first leaf.
They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, "Why must we fall? ..."
The second leaf asked, "What happens to us when we have fallen?"
"We sink down. ..."
"What is under us?"
The first leaf answered, "I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows."
The second leaf asked, "Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?"
The first leaf answered, "Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it."
They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, "Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling."
"That's nothing," the second leaf answered, "I tremble at the least thing now. I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to."
"Let's not talk any more about such things," said the first leaf.
The other replied, "No, we'll let be. Butâwhat else shall we talk about?" She was silent, but went on after a little while. "Which of us will go first?"
"There's still plenty of time to worry about that," the other leaf assured her. "Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid things..."
"Now the nights are dreadful," the second leaf complained, "and there is no end to them."
"We shouldn't complain," said the first leaf gently. "We've outlived many, many others."
"Have I changed much?" asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.
"Not in the least," the first leaf assured her. "You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly. But it's different in your case."
"You're fooling me," the second leaf said.
"No, really," the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, "believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me."
"Thanks," whispered the second leaf, quite touched. "I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me. I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are."
"Hush," said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more.
Then they were both silent. Hours passed.
A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops.
"Ah, now," said the second leaf, "I..." Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.Â
Winter had come.
Sep 8, 2024
Related Recs
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In the end, autumn is no more than a cold infusion.
Dead leaves of all essences steep in the rain. No fermentation, no resulting alcohol: the effect of compresses applied to a wooden leg will not be felt till spring.
The stripping is messily done. All the doors of the reading room fly open and shut, slamming violently.
Into the basket, into the basket! Nature tears up her manuscripts, demolishes her library, furiously thrashes her last fruits.
She suddenly gets up from her work table; her height at once immense. Unkempt, she keeps her head in the mist. Arms dangling, she rapturously inhales the icy wind that airs her thoughts. The days are short, night falls fast, there is no time for comedy.
The earth, amid the other planets in space, regains its seriousness. Its lighted side is narrower, infiltrated by valleys of shadow. Its shoes, like a tramp's, slosh and squeak.
In this frog pond, this salubrious amphibiguity, everything regains strength, hops from rock to rock, and moves on to another meadow. Rivulets multiply.
That is what is called a thorough cleaning, and with no respect for conventions! Garbed in nakedness, drenched to the marrow.
And it lasts, does not dry immediately. Three months of healthy reflection in this condition; no vascular reac-tion, no bathrobe, no scrubbing brush. But its hearty constitution can take it.
And so, when the little buds begin to sprout again, they know what they are up to and what is going onâand if they peek out cautiously, all numb and flushed, they know why:
But here begins another tale, thereby hanging perhaps but not smelling like the black rule that will serve to draw my line under this one.
Oct 4, 2024
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a couple months ago I'm out behind the gabled house with dregs of home still seeping through its edges, a sharp sort of newness ripping the seams of who I am & who I was, sweaty fingers slipping from between each other with the bloodied grasp of desperation - it is a spring day, and I am here again. the leaves are new and the blinking infant furled in the strands of my chest takes a breath and every time I trudge through these vine-ridden woods I feel her grubby hands trace the creases in my ribcage. there are ghosts here, the soulmate-friend across the ocean and I and the way we'd take axes to the already-fallen trees like our anger was spraying away with the bark and we were left with only breeze. there are the phantoms of our hands stuck in the mud, ripped leaves beneath our fingernails as we unclogged the flow of the creek and watched the water dig its trenches deeper, and now i'm watching it capture the light of a new year in my hometown alone. through the leaves and over the tinny chorus of water-on-rock I hear the echoes of a mother calling to her children in a game of hide-and-seek, her children laughing, the clamor of it like a memory captured on tape and played back. there is a hole here, radio waves rippling through years folded back and punched through, I a bystander to the reminiscence of a stranger years down the line when some part of that laughter will be lost. it is here. it is here now, in the backyard of a house I sometimes call home.
May 5, 2025
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This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bearâs Winter Of The Salamander, âWhen We Assume Life Will Go Well For Usâ. Rayâs work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me.
From His Dream
the air hadnât changedÂ
since she last saw her mother.
the land was cover with frozenÂ
rain. she knew a couple of daysÂ
ahead that the spring would disappear.
she kept reminding to her husband,Â
itâll have to come back.Â
i donât think itâs really over with,Â
but he always seemed disinterested.Â
a look of worry in his eyes.Â
even as it was snowing,Â
thunder rolled across the roofÂ
of their home and they couldnâtÂ
help glancing at each otherÂ
with puzzled faces. bodiesÂ
of disemboweled animals flashedÂ
in their minds,Â
the children ran about in playÂ
but when they ran into their fatherâsÂ
eyes, they could see the lightÂ
of their rooms, the changing contrastÂ
of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning inÂ
the figure of seals on a tree.
the second time they ran,Â
the wind made sounds as ifÂ
there were people with their mouthsÂ
up against the house, talking.
as it grew colder, the snow madeÂ
more noise against the plasticsÂ
coverings over the windows.
when the children looked outsideÂ
they could see the clouds piling upÂ
on top of each other, each groupÂ
darker than the other.Â
across the room where their mother
sat they could distinctly visualizeÂ
the changing color of her lips.Â
teeth biting into her skin.
they followed as she circledÂ
the room, spitting the chewed willowÂ
all around the windows.
their son has been gone mostÂ
of the day. it wasnât unusual for himÂ
to hunt alone. he always seemed to knowÂ
what to do. old enough to be giftedÂ
naturally to keep away from flowing women,
he had spoken about sliding down hillsÂ
on his knees, picking up the snowÂ
to his ears and hearing the thoughtsÂ
of deer, bringing packed bodiesÂ
of muskrat and duck, the differentÂ
crusts of blood on his shoulder bag.
from a distance, his fatherÂ
could see his tracks headingÂ
into the thickets. small owls guidedÂ
their way through brush by the touchÂ
in their wings. he remembered a dreamÂ
he had that morning of giant fishÂ
and coral snakes submerged in the icy watersÂ
of a river he had never seen.Â
he and his son cornering a small horse
covered with fish scales, bearingÂ
the head of a frightened man.Â
its thin legs and cracked hooves.Â
somewhere in this land he knewÂ
there was a place where these creaturesÂ
existed. he had also been told of a hole
where the spirits spent their days,Â
watching the people before they crawledÂ
out, traveling through their arcsÂ
in the sky towards evening like birds.
on the way back home, thinking his sonÂ
had circled the forest, he crawledÂ
across a section of river which was stillÂ
covered with ice and fish entrails,Â
previous spots where he had taughtÂ
his son to use a blanket to blockÂ
out the daylight to lie thereÂ
with his barbed spear, waitingÂ
for catfish to lumber out from the rootsÂ
of fallen trees under the ice.Â
although he felt a desire to crawlÂ
straight across without lookingÂ
down into the river bottom throughÂ
the clear ice, something caught his eye,Â
as he peered into the bubbling water,Â
he saw the severed head of his son,Â
the hoof from his dream,Â
bouncing along the sandy bottom.
Jan 19, 2025
Top Recs from @taterhole
My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebodyâbe it a relative or one of my best friendsâwas to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too đ
Feb 23, 2025
May 28, 2025
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Iâve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapidâa critique often rooted in misogynyâbut now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments.
We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretationâpreconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume.
On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your imageâselfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that thereâs another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. Itâs refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics.
By sharing so few images of myself, Iâve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentionalâsomething that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance.
For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. Iâve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look.
In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? Itâs a question worth considering.
Dec 27, 2024