Dry

Dried leaves

crackle as they break

underneath my left shoe

and the weight of my left leg.

All of nature is so brittle

when it is dry and bereft

of moisture.

 

It waits for rain;

all things wait for rain to fall.

 

It makes a different sound,

the leaves, when the water droplets

fall on its surface.

 

It won’t be raining soon.

I walk in this forest-like encampment

of trees and bushes and flowers

and a carpet of grass,

and this trail of dried leaves,

that lead me nowhere

but deeper into the heart

of everything.

 

And yet I find myself

nowhere.

 

There is life here, though, at eye-level

and above me;

and death beneath my feet.

 

And just like all things in nature,

I’m waiting for the rain.

I’m dried up and brittle

and very easily broken.

 

I’d break underneath your right foot

and the weight of your right leg

should you put it on my face

the way you did last night.

 

I’m just dried leaves

on a forest floor

waiting for rain

that will come just a little too late.

 

 

 

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