Perhaps on a day when the air is crisp and still
I'll float down in slow gentle circles
to rest on the path where others will walk.
Or maybe I'll flame out in crimson brilliance
ripped through the air by a sudden gust of wind
fading into fragility inside the dark pages of a book.
It's possible I'll hold on cracked brown and dry
all through the cold night forced to the ground
only by the undeniable exuberance of spring.
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