Do not

Become a

False hope

All step

To a

Different drum

Instead be

A whistle

Or wind

Or horizon

For it

Is these

That men

Hear or

Feel or

See

And when

My three

Simple words

Fall from

The tree

And twirl

Down will

You not

Pick them

Up and

Listen or

Will you

Simply pile

Them atop

So many

Others and

Burn them

Sending them

And me

Skyward free

As leaves

Swirl and

Dance in

Brisk fall

Winds one

Lands upon

My shoulder

And in

Its dying

Colors I

See the

Spring and

Summer veins

Of sunshine

And rain

And now

Its end

Bumblebee floated

About landing

On me

And whispered

Don’t I

Look silly

Bumbling about

Without a

Care except

To tell

You that

You’re perfect

Right where

You are