The Leaving


It is the sun’s last three heartbeats of love that makes the leaves blush.

A heart beats once …
A season’s worth of passion poured upon the leaves,
The crimson glow betraying the sun’s adoration.
Fingered shafts of light whisper over the crinkled edges,
Warming the green, turning jealousy to blushing love.

A heart beats twice …
Her waist dips below the limiting circle and she grips harder,
Begging to stay longer, grasping at the tops of her trees.
Her heart sears—fierce, simmering, direct—
Concentrating all she did not say, could not say in a single moment.

A heart beats thrice …
Sinking inevitably, her eyes dispatch her last ounce of ardor
Upon every arboreal cell alive to receive it.
The last shining tendril extinguishes in a burst,
Content for an evening, knowing the world has seen her love,

Surrendering her earth in winter to the moon.


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