Fallen Leaf

I stand on a land that isn’t mine.
I sing for an anthem that once excluded me.
Who are the sons? 
What did they command?

I tell you this through a poem. 
Although, I should be listening to those who came before me.
For I am not native to this land.
Born here, yes, but not a right, a privilege as a place to rest. 

I kneel and touch the ground. 
The soil whispers engrained stories. 
Heavy, I look to the sky.
O’Canada!

A red leaf falls into my open hands.
Dry and wet, I examine its veins and trace them like rivers.
Spirits alive, tangled hearts we rise.