death of a leaf

when the moon is high, there can be
no pity, no regret.
dive into that grave dug for you,
freshly turned soil soft such
welcome respite from a season
spent clinging to… to
summer, hope,
last rays of light as they hit the lowest angle
and bleed across the sky –
there is no shame in lying among the moss and the dead
giving themselves to dirt.
sleep easy before the quiet snow,
one simple silver bell toll at a time,
becomes a burial shroud, so calm, so inevitable.

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