Poem: “flight”



I don’t think when we die

that we go anywhere at all;

breaking down to sparest wisps

of dirt and seed.

It’s no different from the Leaf

who never chooses when to fall;

but only hopes his end is prolonged by

some revelatory Breeze.

So he can travel, ever-hoping,

to some field of no tomorrows;

breaking down the certain hand

of gravity.

And the same way that the Leaf

cannot curse the Hand that plucked him;

so as it goes for me.

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