Leaves

If I am the oak

who are all the leaves

that hang on my limbs, feeding

off the nourishment

that I leech from the ground

with my stable, massive

roots?

Are they not memories

of all that I have seen

throughout my years of my life?

Do they not fall

in the cold of winter

only to decompose,

slithering back into the earth

that feeds my new memories?

Do they not regrow themselves

each spring

mixed amongst the new

                               thoughts

                                          desires

                                                  dreams

planting renewed visions

to grow in my mind?

Do I not

turn a small piece of each one

of my selfsame memories loose

               to blow

                      into

                          tomorrow

each time that the gentle breeze

stirs through

my leaves?

Thus do I find myself blowing free

around this earth

on a new adventure each

year

      day

           hour

                  minute

                             forever.