The sun sets through broken clouds,
reflects off flickering leaves falling
to the ground before
the cold winter sets in.
In a passing moment,
their lives reflected
before they dissolve
away to nothing.
They are not real. Not now.
Their flesh was only an illusion
of every other leaf,
every other face
that gazed upon them.
They were the buzzing bee
that pollinated its flowers,
the caterpillar that feasted
on its tender shoots
and laid its eggs among its branches.
Each leaf was something else
experienced a hundred-fold.
They too were not real. Not now.
For what once was,
death takes away.
Becomes something else.
We loved, we hated.
We were sad, joyous.
Not now.
No longer real.
Simply were.
—Paul Causey
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