The Crepe Myrtle’s leaves

Turn golden

As they let go their branches

Fall to the ground

Lie close to each other

A carpet of gold

Then scatter in the night

When rains finally

Come

 

Sycamore begins dropping her

Leaves

Before Halloween

Such a large tree

Has more to drop

Then the Crepe Myrtle

And any of their neighbor’s

Sycamore leaves

Lie on the ground

Different shapes

Different sizes

I see them

As miniature sculptures

No two alike

 

I want to let go

Of bewilderment

Of despair I feel

From the chaos

Invading the life

Blood

In the government

Of my country

Stress I hear

In voices around me

Everywhere I go

I want to drop my worries

My heart’s concerns

Like leaves

Falling from the trees

To the welcoming

Ground

Not to resist

What is

And know with

Trust

This too must

Pass