As the season starts,
Some Leaves fall
While the Others soar
Above the fallen.

But the Letters bring Hope
Or Despair
Or Both.
But the Leaves are never alone.

The Swimmer dreams of Alabama
At four in the Morn.
She hopes her Speed
Will drive her to her Sweet Home.

The Scholar writes of Massachusetts
At one in the Morn.
He hopes his Brain
Will place him in the Bay State.

The Artist paints of California
At five in the Eve.
She hopes her Hand
Will adorn her in the Golden State.

The Legacy dreams of Texas
At eight in the Eve.
He hopes his History
Will established him in the Lone Star.

Yet, these Leaves all hope to soar
But some will fall.
What will their Branches think?
If they have not soared?

The Speed is not Fast enough.
The Brain is not Smart enough.
The Hand is not Talented enough.
The History is not Strong enough.

Yet, these Leaves hope to soar
And some will soar.
What will their Branches think?
If they truly soar?

The Speed is Fast enough.
The Brain is Smart enough.
The Hand is Talented enough.
The History is Strong enough.

As the season ends,
Some Leaves have fallen.
While Others have soared away
Above the fallen.

But the Letters are gone.
And Hope is not.
But the Leaves are never alone.
They lay Together, fallen.
Or, perhaps, they Soar together.