Soft petal-tongues of green
break and fall to wind’s gavel,
only to nourish Socrates’ reasoning,
which seasoned the mind of Time.
It decays again,
solidifying life’s white-knuckle grip on death.
Death breaks and falls to the sound of wind’s anvil,
only to nourish soft petal-tongues of green.
Time remembers soft petal-tongues of green
in poems of repetition.
He kisses them back,
inviting wind, water, sun, dirt.
Eventually they tire,
and after giving their children to wind,
receiving promise from water,
and drinking once more with sun,
they fall to dirt’s embrace.
Only to solidify death’s white-knuckle grip on life.
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