I used to believe that
the leafy scattered things
that are our lives
have a purpose in germinating,
growing and then falling.
But what if they are just
leafy, scattered things,
blown here and there,
and nowhere?
What if each new breeze
is just whimsical,
and ‘purpose’ is merely
a neat fable to cover
the truth:
that all too soon
leaves are forgotten
brown clusters whose disposition
is driven by the wind?
4/4/2010
