Treetops blow around
in the ten-o-clock breeze,
I am walking to my car.
Last year's seedpods waft,
light but tethered
to proud branches.
They are as clean and free
as myself at the end of the day,
driving to my proud little home,
far above what has not been settled,
pushed up safely by effort,
ready to fall, or to stay held,
or to decorate my maker.
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