(Poem 5)

The wind surges forward beating on the backs of creatures who dare to resist the power of its force.
Everything succumbs.

Into the distant, disfigured setting, there stands a tree firmly planted with seemingly immovable branches.
Leaves are falling.

The sound of change going unnoticed is deafening to the ear as the wind whips and snaps and the muted efforts of the leaf pass away.
Oh good God.

Don’t they see the tree is agonizing at the incompleteness of its form as the sacred order of nature’s design is disassembled?
It cries, “Not my baby.”

As the leaf falls, the tree lunges downward in response to the wind, breaking at its roots and losing itself in the process.
Solid ground buckles.

I am a leaf on its branch being jolted as it tugs, falling as it bends, feeling anguish course through my veins as it mourns.
It’s the price of connection.

I pause in moments of stillness with a heart so heavy laden that apathy paints the folding of my form and the sickening whiplash.
Is there relief?

As the focus fades from 6 to 60 feet away, the world appears to march ahead as if unafflicted by the fickleness of life.
The wind beats on.

A passerby stepping with their chest puffed and head down wears the smile of a protagonist triumphant against all odds.
This isn’t their story.