Zephyr
Zephyr blows hard, clearing their lungs,
blows cold with season and earnestness.
The leaves of autumn, by now crisp
and light of weight, blow yon, then hither,
as if without will, and perhaps the leaves
of autumn are without will, perhaps
with will, the will to be, to have opinion
as to place, one being as fair, or not,
as the next. Hither and yon they blow,
are blown, devoid of life by our measure,
their nature brittle, yet, a leaf in love,
as are we, or hope to be, in their very being,
their gift of self, of leafness, an existence
by motion, by riding Zephyr's wild ride.
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2024-02-10 at 06:28
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