Alone in these woods with scissors
I create my most affectionate art.
Through my work, altruism shines,
but I do not actively offer aid to any need.
I am content here in my isolation
watching the world about me crumble,
watching restraints of life submit to dust.
I find strength in my independence,
freedom in my expressions and repose
for no one questions my existence here
amongst the foliage that dares
hide my secrets with tender care.
And it was to this quiet refuge that I’d run
when I was certain no action could be undone,
yet in my recollection of the scenes I witness
hidden amongst the trees’ distress over fall
the leaves changing green to orange to brown
withering, crumbled and trodden on the ground.
I believe that I have somehow fallen akin
to this expected cycle of the season as it has spun
maddening, dizzy until it is all but worn out,
then awake, anew with spring, it begins again.


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