A tree is a tree.  It is what it is.  Constant and strong.  A leaf is a different story.  A maple tree produces maple leaves, an oak, oak leaves.  This is a force not to be reckoned.  

We, I think, are like leaves.  We are what we are, in some facts.  They can't be changed.  Our environment, the conditions we weather and destiny choose our path. 

Born to a static being, we grow and are nourished by it.  We reach maturity and start our plummet, the ground below is almost inevitable.  Depending on the conditions we endure, we may be brittle and our fall not as neat as some.  Some will be full of holes, whipping and twisting in the wind, a pitiful sight.  Some would be substantial and float with ease.  To some, those are the ones to watch. 

If I were a leaf, I would probably be the one full of holes, who hanged on til that first winter breeze.  My flight would not be graceful. I'm sure I would not be the first to be regarded.  I can't control what my neck of the woods has made me...  a shatterable bit of genesis. 

 I can, however, hang loose and enjoy my flight.