On wild fire leaves, I find myself.
Blazing across soil tilled by words,
paragraphs planted there to grow into conviction
and one day, maybe, blossom into action.
The leaves have drifted from a tree that none can not-remember, and I,
smooth and young as I may be,
lay atop it's epithelial blanket.
I find myself, in Us, here.
The Us that has and always will be
growing and flowering and fading to grow again
reborn with the carousel seasons,
kaleidoscope years painting pictures in our lives.
The paragraphs you planted there
that grew into an Us
and fell with winter's first embraces
into You and Me again.