Does a brittle, prime
past leaf, plucked
from its cozy life
past leaf, plucked
from its cozy life
by an errant breeze,
wonder why it is
somersaulting precariously
wonder why it is
somersaulting precariously
through the air? Does
it question where
it is being tossed? Or
it question where
it is being tossed? Or
when it might once
again tumble jarringly
to a stop? Would
again tumble jarringly
to a stop? Would
knowing change its
capacity for delight?
Or change the fact
capacity for delight?
Or change the fact
that, in the end, we are
all inexpressibly, unalterably
alone?
all inexpressibly, unalterably
alone?
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