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.