Foraging through

Rich earth

Seeking that

Which I

Lost and

Failing to

Find and

There in

My dilemma

Realizing that

What I

Had lost

I had

Actually planted

And one

Day will

Bear fruit

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