Was it just time or was it the air current?
A catalyst in the changing seasons,
When green turns to brown, transmuting new to old
But beautiful still.
Flexible. Pliable. Bendable yields to crisp. Crunchy. Crumbly.
The texture of the seasons.
And gently floating from which origin I cannot discern;
The path seems slow for the moment,
And just enough time for my thoughts to transgress
A memory once soft and supple, now faded and curled on the edges.
And yet somewhere deep within my roots,
It is beautiful still.
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