Two impressions met in the wind;
each asked where the other had been;
caught in a glance, both said;
and passed again.
Year upon year, fall upon fall, the maple leaves on the path remind me of hands. And one must die to know what it is to be held that way — die to the branch, die to the stem, die to the light, die to the wind. In other words, one must live. You turn up your collar, look skyward, then back again at where you have been. And find it changed. Because you have.
Recently Banned Literature, November 4, 2017
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