Matakar

We met the leaves falling from their trees in Winton. One by one, each blade settled unto dull grass abandoning lush insight. Frond after frond—unlike my timid tear—stem released lamina to Indifference. So, as needle declined to apathy, each petiole shot off soothing melody: parachuting sound, helping landing to insensitive ground.

But gravity disrupted harmony when she forced the last bit of green from dwindling midrib. And so was the end of orchestral scene: the woodwinds took a bow—brass, percussion, their final sound—the strings went last: violin, viola, cello, double bass.

They called it Autumn. I called it Weeping. I was the seeping, mesmerized audience giving eternal ovation to reoccurring anarchy.

Full of empathy, I walked over to comfort Tree.