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For a moment I thought
it was a butterfly,
the yellow and orange leaf
that took flight from the swishing poplar tree
across my balcony.

It swayed and fluttered in excitement –
here and there, up and down,
undecided if right or left,
to the ground or up to the sky –
Should I stay or should I go?

What to make of perceived options
when you lose your wings to know
that gravity always wins?
And ultimately to the ground
with or without wings.
Written years ago, this poem came to me after watching leaves dance in the wind — free for a moment, then returning to earth. Like all of us.
Chris Saitta Nov 2019
What is to say beyond the poplars,
But the dry mouth of her death,
Like the hoarded provision of an echo,
Somewhere far off in my being,
Where darkening moves up the stone step,
Each footprint like her powdered breath,
Her shuddering voice channeled through my throat,
Shattered like frozen buds blown to the faceless snow.

— The End —