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Soft Landing

Lone orange, curled leaf

Dangling a’ tip one of

So many naked, grey limbs

Stretched awkwardly from

Trunks, twisted and worn

With time. Weathered.

 

The wind nor time has

Signaled yet to let slip

Life’s grasp and fall to

Earth, to join its lot,

What fell before and

Would, perhaps blanket

One’s landing if well-timed.

 

Just as well, time.

It dictates all, while

Giving the perception

Of being dictated to.

It knows all, yet

Tells only what it wishes,

and to whom.

 

Hence,

So many confused by its

Whims, who figure to have

Time cornered, dance about

And proclaim to hold

the might, the strength,

the right, boldness, aptitude

and foresight, but for not.

 

For none of them glimpse

Or remember that beneath,

At no great distance

Lie a blanket of peers,

Cast off before and who

Will, perhaps or not,

Blanket the last hanger’s on

Own fall from life’s gnarled limb.

     

 

 

 

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