Another Leaf Out On a Limb

The breath of breeze tickles
the leaves into suppressed giggles
of movement, as if they found
these days inadvertently funny,
like thirteen year olds at a funeral.
And now they droop like eyelids
downcast from some invisible adults’
stern displeasure with their confused
emotions eliciting titters so conflicted.
All my life I’ve been in that one church
yet disparate pews arrangement, by choice
or chastening, belying my free will
my nomadic tail hunkered weeping
among the immature or stifling
a laugh within the grieving and stiff.
And so I sit today, confused, yearning
a breath to stir my leaves before turning
when I’ll rattle and fall, no longer
capable of the laugh or the tear, a hunger
for your words to come again, stir my trees
and produce the fruit we once did with ease.
But let’s not cry over what we’ve lost,
let’s laugh loud and inappropriately
at the cost of our failures and joy.
Someday, I’ll sing you a song, maybe a hymn,
of how we shared this tree, but never a limb.

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