A Familiarity

Here is my attempt at a longer one…

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I ask my silent self,
Why do I grieve?
But upon gazing
At the crimson autumn trees,
And their melancholy pool
Of delicious falling leaves,
At the rain drop dying
On my weathered cheeks,
At the innocent soil
Tilled till it breaths,
At the sad lawn grass
Amputated with ease,
And at the humble beetle
Trampled on the street,
I recognize a familiarity.

Everything is sadder than me.
As if God shaped nature
For my therapy.

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