Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
For a moment I thought
it was a butterfly,
the yellow and orange leaf
that took flight from the swishing poplar tree
across my balcony.

It swayed and fluttered in excitement –
here and there, up and down,
undecided if right or left,
to the ground or up to the sky –
Should I stay or should I go?

What to make of perceived options
when you lose your wings to know
that gravity always wins?
And ultimately to the ground
with or without wings.
Written years ago, this poem came to me after watching leaves dance in the wind — free for a moment, then returning to earth. Like all of us.
Oh, love me not to the brim of your heart.
What fool can deny love's semblance to art?
Love me as a connoisseur sips fine wine
lest your sweet blue eyes turn into lakes of brine.

— The End —