windblown leaves my thoughts
skipping and whirling about
in eddies of impulse and reaction
lifeless castoffs pretending
seminal self-importance
feebly scraping along land
as if to furrow ready field
only to accumulate
damp and moldy heaps
springing quick primordial fungi
concert of decomposition
in the mirror I consume me
and the world in my guise
preen my leaves extolling
virtue of green then red
then brown, then reconciliation
the shivering winter icicles
dangle from my many knuckles
a handsome scene I might reflect
in cloudy waters of strife
lamenting matte ice and mostly
the constant view of me
what, I might reflect,
is the world without a tree?
Miles of Mindfulness 