Fallen.

A chill much like one felt in my first weeks of life breezes past my flesh.
I tremble, but my grip is still resolute.
The sun shines a tiny bit less each day, instead of a tiny bit more as it once was.

I am perpetually parched—a thirst unquenched even by an enduring afternoon rain.
When I catch my reflection in a splash of water pooled in the mud, I see my color is fading.

I once had many companions, but steadily they have departed.
In our finest hours, we joined together to shade the blazing heat...to cast enormous shadows on the grass below...to create a rapturous rustling that carried in the wind.

But we are no more. There is just me. I am the last.

What will become of me? Will I be peeled from the heel of a shoe and tossed in a pile: wet, withered, mangled, and limp?

Or will I drop before my beauty has diminished and attract the eye of a passerby? Oh to be whisked from the frosty ground and pressed carefully between waxed sheets—to be preserved...and admired...forever.

Maybe I will simply let go.

Once we were.