Like the leaves falling off a tree.
I, the tall oak, morn each and every one,
Even the dried-up ones,
Which weighed upon my branches
With their sickly sorrows.
Will they grow back?
I worry every autumn,
Still being, after all these years,
Afraid the branches will stay bare.
Becoming a grander tree.
Leaving behind a reckless pile
Of what I thought made me complete.