I wonder if
Nature knows
That dying leaves
Are not the end
If it remembers
The previous spring
If it cries and mourns
When green turns
To red to yellow to brown
Which falls
Or if it voluntarily releases
Its dying parts
Sends them to the earth:
"You can use this now"
And waits
Winter is long
But is it anticipated?
Or does Nature simply
Bow its head
And trust
Maybe it doesn't get to know
The exact day of its annual death
But counts worry about time
As just another piece
To release to the ground
What is good will spring up again
It always does
For that is
The way of things
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