Prayers falling.
I am afraid of the next leaf falling,
and it is autumn.
Limbed red leaves shimmer anticipation
into the still-yet-to-be coming breath.
My own thoughts flicker past
the line of trees, past the gray distant crown,
hills sleeping brown and green.
Some voice contemplates the next word.
Within my own chest that wind begins to tug
and I know I have no chance but to meet
the next face that comes falling to me.
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