A lone, golden leaf flutters in the wind,
Serrated edges and bronze inserts.
His oak tree father is poised, proud and firm.
A storm cloud rises,
The golden edges shudder,
Locked in a vortex of air.
The storm rages all day,
The golden leaf buffeted,
Powerless against nature's force.
In the morning, a new dawn.
An auspicious calm reigns.
The little leaf alive, renewed reborn.
Fly away little leaf, fly away,
Over hilltops and streams,
Let this life take you where it will.
In a snowdrop-filled dell,
Something golden shimmers amongst the white,
A half-buried treasure awaiting a home.
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It's a lovely non-end for a poem written on the 31st of December. I am starting to sense that you are fully committed to the writing exercise.. nearly as much as to the walking..
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