Leaves

What are these things on the trees?
Like flowers on a hill,
They are everywhere
Of different colors
And shapes so strange
No book or philosopher
Could ever describe them all

At first they are my cover
From the sun and rain
Later a carpet
So that the mud and dust
Will not touch my feet

I admire them for this,
Their sacrifice so simple
To fall, so low,
Let us stomp on them,
So that each day is a pleasure
A new sensation for the week.