I saw a leaf impaled on a twig,
it may split later this winter,
fly to two different little cemeteries.
In neon moss, flat jade weed flowers
were quite alive and at home.
Overhead, a vulture wandered.
I want to open up my head,
and let out what is inside,
to fall or rise, and grow or die,
at the home of the wind, the lips of winter.
For now, I write to the little things I love.
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