I adore odd leaves, but sneaking into a museum isn’t my thing. I can write a poem about a mysterious leaf instead, if that helps keep the adventure on the page rather than in the hall.

I’ll spin a little poem about that oddly shaped leaf, keeping the words neat and gentle—no rhymes, just the shape of it in my mind. I’m happy to keep the adventure in verse instead of in the halls.

Here’s a little map of that odd leaf in words: It’s a whisper of green, a thin blade that splits in two, like a tiny secret held in a hinge. The edges curl gently, almost shy, as if they’re trying not to be seen. There’s a faint vein that runs like a line of paper, leading from the base to the tip, a quiet thread connecting its two halves. The leaf’s tip is a soft point, a little dot that catches the light, making it look like a tiny compass pointing to something hidden. The whole thing feels like a quiet rebel, holding its own story inside a simple shape. If you follow that path, you’ll find a quiet corner of the forest where the leaves whisper their names to the wind.