a poem, in leaves

the tree is me.


When the wind rises, my leaves are alive.
They rustle awake, stroking another, to say hello.

When the wind passes, as everything must,
from ashes to ashes, and dust into dust, there still is a bit of life in my leaves, some of them fluttering, striving to be free. I feel the loss, the least of all, the moment each one starts to fall.

The End

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