Leaves Poem by Wayne Cheah
Leaves
It's the night before
Christmas,
all is quiet and still,
a knock on my door
harsh as winter's chill.
No one is really there
I know,
just wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air
with nowhere to go.
I look at the door
handle,
dirty and rusty brown,
like a window decor,
stopping no thief or vandal.
There's room here somewhere
I know,
for wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air,
with nowhere to go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 7:56:47 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
