I hear rustling leaves, maybe wresting leaves, or restless leaves.
Either way, I know they are scared of the thieves.

Who are the thieves, you ask?
Well of course, it’s you and I.

The bustling world we perceive to be our own,
shared by the rustling leaves who know no home.

For they crackle on as the wind blows them place to place.
Ahead of them a journey that brings them face to face:

With death,
or perhaps freedom.

Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin.

I’m reminded,

Each breath,
a chance to see some.

Perhaps we too, ride on the journey to join:

The rustling leaves.

Here’s my personal analysis on the poem.