They wither

And here we see the fall of them with the advent of summers…

They wither now,

 

unperfected with dots of dissuading heat,

I touch the touch of seasons, take it in my palm

and feel the life seeping away, I free the force

plucking it from the scratched wooded source,

and set it on the iron bar, its last touch of height.

.

It stays in between weighing the air towards me

and that which would have it reach the ground,

exasperated and thoughtless that I can be,

I seize it once again and drop it, turning my back,

not to see its final journey end, by my hand.

.

They wither, now I melt.

.

Photograph clicked 19 March’14, presented with a hundred-worded verse.

* 11 April 2014, The new leaves now adorn the pillar of strength. Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

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24 thoughts on “They wither

  1. there is a serious and interesting philosophical question underneath this..almost like assisted death….freeing it to take that finally journey, whether we are willing to watch it or not….intriguing verse….

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  2. This poem awes me with its depth & meaning. I read it a few times, each time taking more from it. Though they wither, there are always more to come….

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  3. How unique this is! Are we responsible for what we save? Are we just delaying the inevitable? I have preserved leaves between pages of books, and I am trying to do the same with people, I think, in a different way. I truly enjoyed your two part truth in poetic form.

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  4. love the little intimate touch with nature…taking it in your hand and feeling the life ebbing…and then letting it go…life will come again…it is the seasons…it is the way…

    Like

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