a petal falls from
the folds of a rose
one at a time,
gently, on the breeze
the air barely stirs
but to lift it
in its descent: a little flip, rocking
like a babe in a
cradle, sleeping
so does the petal
drift in the air
not aware that anyone
is taking notice
and yet it does its
tender dance steps
to the beat of
nature’s heart
without the wish for
applause
without explanation
or excuse
just that it is and
chooses to be
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