Bare Branches
I am letting go of leaves
Or are they letting go of me
I watch their downward drifting
Rocking back and forth by breeze
Cradled quiet on their journey
A silent lullaby
I hang with each one in the air
Summer flesh now flaking dry
I choose to watch their falling
My nature aches to be reminded
How very short a season lasts
Born sycamore instead of pine
I was made to shed this skin
Grey rolls of cardboard slipping slight
Leaning with the wind I have a look
At pieces scattered left and right
I shake the weight of my bare branches
Absorb the fading warmth and light
I was not made to endure changes
While remaining straight and green
From root to tip, where blackbirds grip
The travel of the earth, I need it
-a.r.
Painting: Study of a Sycamore Branch by Drusilla Montemayor
sometimesihatemycat 
Beautifully written.
Thank you very much, and thank you for reading.
It was a pleasure.
Genius.
Thank you…you flatter.
Never