Torched trees,
leafless and fuzzy,
with branches like
the cartoon hair
of a person
after an electric shock.
Raindrops perform
a balancing act,
clinging to the
ends of twigs,
so they look
like crystals,
knowing if they drop,
they join the apricot
and pumpkin
mush that cushions
the ground,
They will lose their
identity,
as the leaves do,
over time,
their sharp,
defined edges,
soften
as they merge,
and become the
earth,
feeding
the trunks
that give birth
to their replacements.
We tread on it,
inserting the
individual contained
in the print of our feet,
into the ground beneath
which we call dirt
and for a while we
forget that
we too will become
the earth.
