Desiccated bronze orphans,

aligned along branches,

rustling symphony

trembling in the wind.

Brittle flags hanging,

minor testament to doggedness,

multiple casualties

dropping to ground.

I know they are just leaves,

and I am just walking.

That is just tree.

This is just sky.

I am just flesh and bone,

water and pigment.

Still, I see wisdom everywhere.

Think: Zorba the Greek’s parable.

What wind hatched these cocoons too early?

Whose impatient breath brought death,

not life?

Who is my teacher, if not this?