Words flutter past me; in their fall, I reach blindly for one to call my own. Like leaves, brittle and frail in autumn gusts, they crumble to pieces in my shaky head. Their beauty is crushed, and I have no choice but to reach for others. Turning so quickly from green to brown, drying up before my very eyes, I think they all might die before I can find one pumping with life. Life to bring spring and summer on the page where I dread winter’s frozen and barren grounds. In the whirlwind, I search for the word still orange and red, where shades of green still fight for their right, and once it is in my sight, I will leap high to make sure it is mine.