The Bettering Leaves

A swift wind carries a shift.
It is a wind that howls, and turns, and curls, and churns.  It blows a thought through the wood where it catches the leaves.  It bounces between the red and the brown, making contact with the veins and the corners of the sharply edged oak blossoms.  It lands on a soul which begins to sink.  The tree releases its grip on its child which follows the wind to where e'er it goes.  The soul floats on, alone.  Having left behind the world of the tree, the soul, without direction, spirals east, west, and so.  It finds no rest, but thrives in the arms of the northeasterly quest for air.  Another soul meets; it flees without care.  Another soul greets; and for a moment a spark jolts the two, oh, somewhere.  A third and a fourth and a flurry forces the fire of fun to find, oh, someone!  Each leaf sees another; they soar, they spin, they whistle and create melodies of blades and designs of lavish opulence.  They grasp for each other while the wind sustains another deep blow.  
And gone.  
The soul falls alone, remembering only the brief moment in time where its flurries were so easily shared.  It sits, as if to call upon someone waiting to greet them with secure fingers and soft palms.  It longs to be blown.  To soar.  To sing.  To the sky.  Despite its happy safety, it lurks and it broods.  It longs for the sky.  It longs for the sky.  The leaves that once were became the leaves that now are.  The soul settles beside the rock and the stream.  It remembers the leaves of its dreams.  It curls the way the wind curled the air, enshrining its path of the past in its veins and its grasp, never to forget the souls it has passed.