See that tree over there,
shrouded in the autumn mist?
letting go of dying things.
Not screaming,
not clutching,
not hanging on to what once was…
Just letting go, letting fall,
that for which
time has come.
Leaves now exquisite decay
yellow, gold and brown,
blanketing the ground.
And the tree,
hemmed by death,
retreats deeply into itself
saving its life
for when the sun returns.

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