Grace

the age of snow
has come to you
contradicting
your olive, wrinkled
brow

shocked
at first
to see your wintery
translation

I gradually
accepted
nature’s exhibitionism
trumpeting you
as

one lucky enough

to revel in
time’s
descriptive patterns

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dead

dry shrivelled
leaves crackle
as they
hit the hard ground

drought-aged confetti
murdered
by a harsh
hot wind

do they have regrets?
do they pine for lost love?
do they rage, in their death spin, of wasted days?

completely withered
they have surely cried
all possible tears

I am
one
of them
strewn
a useless object
on a heartless earth

alone

but joining a cast of millions