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?
Beautiful poem. 🙂