When yellow leaves hang
I will look for you,
silver streaks and frail.
My branches will reach
twisted and tangled
up your vined walls.
My edges will be
crumbling and veined,
but you will see in me:
my brightest hour
my hottest meal
my sweetest poem
and my golden skin.
The sun will slide south,
These roots will be watered,
and this rolling stone will moss.
And you will be...
My last leaf.
No comments:
Post a Comment