The March Goes On

Falling.
Not gracefully,
Like a perfect
Crystal drop.
But spinning,
Grasping for
Something solid.
Kindred with the
Flame red leaf.
Spiralling
Not wanting to
Leave the tree.
To fracture.
So beatifully.
On the dark
Concrete below.
Downwards,
Relentlessly.
To break and
Form so
Many pieces.
Each more
Precious,
Final,
Than
the
Whole.

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One thought on “The March Goes On

  1. Again, this is a wonderfully written poem;

    I have no clue as to the subject, other than its apparent reluctance to fall, yet through the poem’s structure, I am drawn to tumble and whirl downwards with it until it meets its sudden ruin…

    The delightful last few lines render hope that the object’s apparent demise is actually a passage to rebirth into that which is much more precious!

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