It is a willow when summer is over,a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.The leaves cling and grow paler,swing and grow paler over the swirling waters of the river as if loath to let go,they are so cool, so drunk with the swirl of the wind and of the river oblivious to winter,the last to let go and fallin to the water and on the ground.

the leaves of the Willow tree falling like human age and health falls

May Perpetual Light Shine We have encountered stormsPerfect in their drench and wreckEach of us bears an ornament of griefA ring, a notebook, a ticket torn, scarIt is how humans know their kind—What is known as love, what can becomethe heart’s food stored away for some futureFamineLove remains a jewel in the hand, guardedShared fragments of earth & air drift & despair.We ponder what patterns matter other than moons and tides:musical beats—rumba or waltz or cha cha chacosmic waves like batons furiously twirlingcolors proclaiming sparkle of darknessas those we love begin to delightin the stars embracing

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