I tread gingerly over a shining mosaic of wet leaves.
The Maple has shed her decorous clothing.
She’s left her exquisite harvest dress
To decay around the base of her trunk.
She’s ready to lay it all bare,
shedding her past proudly.
She has no concern for where her dressings fall.
There shall be no maid to tidy up,
Except the swift icy winter winds,
who blow her clothes through the streets.
She has no shame.
She’s stands proud.
Trusting Spring will appear just in time.
She will stand strong
In the silent, and frigid faith of the Winter.
She will weather the long darkness,
Wearing it like a heavy woolen cloak.
I shall do the same behind my thick doors.
Piece by piece, I’ll drop my heaviest burdens, around me.
I’ll make way for the fresh growth of Spring’s first light.
Relishing the cycle of life
The way it was meant to be lived.
Obrigado pela leitura!
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