Poetry.inc

That good, healthy leaf,
Veined with black,
Flecked with sunlit
Gold, on Thy track.
And on the colors,
A deep little truth:
Could it survive—
Ripped, off the bush?

I never knew if it
Was meant to wither
Into a void of
Chaos, so I crept closer,
And blew off the dust;
Couldn’t leave it,
Lying in the cracked
Cobblestone, so lifted it—

And now it sleeps—
Unhindered,
In that big fat book,
In peace.