That last leaf, on that dry branch
scratching at grey skies and digging for rain,
digging in my heart for seeds of grief
buried so deep.
What is it about the last one?
Leaf, apple, pine cone?
Winds rake and tug, greedily scooping prizes
sweet, tart, bristley, floatey…
but there always are those hangers on tenacious,
and never saying die…
or is it that they cannot do it? Say die?
or even “dead”.
Is it that they refuse
to let go? Or is it
that they cannot?
And here is the killer: some people think they are resiliant
and full of perseverance and persistence,
and some people think they are noble
and full of loyalty and loose liberty.
But I wonder if they are
just not capable, if they are
just crippled by their
inability to let go and move on?
I know how many days have come,
winds blowing, raking and pawing at me
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