Somewhere
high in the Eastern Sierras
an Aspen tree
lets its last
spade shaped
translucent, tattered
leaf
fall.
The stem
of that leaf
spears the snow,
like a flagpole,
anchored.
A soft breeze
pushes the leaf
spinning round and round,
twisting, turning,
without sound
or a moral compass.
I really like this.
Thanks
Reblogged this on S. HUNTER FINLEY.