They fall slowly, old folks,
on cold days
when holding-on hurts,
hurts their limbs too much.
One is fat, another boney,
all have mottled skin
and some wave as they go
ta-ra, flopping their
bumps on the ground
soon to be buried or burned.
All familiar. All follow
cyclical earth, gravity’s law,
heading for stones.
Some drop in sunlight,
some nighttime
and some fall gracefully; never
in rampage,
anger fear or sadness
because they release,
float,
and leave behind potential;
in
buds.
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