“I, the Tree”

Leaving me,
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.

Breathing change.
Growing pains.
Becoming a grander tree.
Leaving behind a reckless pile
Of what I thought made me complete.

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