scattered leaves, as crossing paths. withering and worn from autumn’s weight. the summer’s dew fall, this evening is beautiful and all sorts of light. it is feathery, soft to touch, and crumbling at even a gentle wash of breeze. they fall unto moist, ripened fruit, soft and bruising – ready for harvest.
too quickly, they morph into powdery grains. this happens upon contact with the waxy surface of green leaves. these leaves, they crinkle at the edges, scooping inwards all that seeks an escape. a delicate curve, which nearly goes unnoticed.
i tell myself; to learn to be more like these brittle leaves. open, like the face of your palm. despite circumstances which bruise and batter you, hard and bitter to heave yourself off the ground, away from the gallows which are tempting and seen with wide open arms – ready to swallow you hole.
this is difficult, and this will reap a sort of strength within you. a form of courage, you’d think you never had, or lost somewhere along this forsaken path. one, seemingly unending, absent of any tell-tale sign nor arrows leading you away from danger. the words you see, do not look anything like the language you speak nor read.
Courage -this, will soon be found, maybe at the soles of your torn shoes. perhaps when you’re still by the fire, you will find it in the wooden twigs. these, which have brought to you this beautiful, raging light.
either way, the only way out is through
and on, and on – you lift your weary little feet.