The wind comes tugging at their stems,
Like a little girl pulling at the hem, of her mother's skirt.
Ever so gently so that they do not break,
But just enough so that the wind can take, one away.
They ride on the wind like a log caught in a stream,
Completely dependent on the wind's path though it may seem, they have a mind of their own.
Once it drops, they come to the ground
And to a place where a little child is found, gathering the greetings of fall.
How beautiful are the colors of these,
Take whichever ones to your eyes they please, but only the fallen ones.
Know child that one day your wind will come,
And at your journey's end, may some of you be left for another to find.
Does this qualify as a poem? Please tell me anything.
Comments
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At some point we all realize that we will die
but that is a facet of beauty,
for those who have grown.
Realization is a fruit that
matures at the end of a lively branch.
Keep wrestling with the ideas
you’re winning!
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