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.
…