I wasn’t born brown and withered.

I began pale,

A bud not yet aware

Of what I would become.

I darkened as I grew,

And spots appeared on my face

With the occasional blush of red.

The brown came later.

The wrinkles.

Someday I will let go

And become soil.

Then wait.

— wait!

Not yet.

I’ll watch others go first

And hang on for as long as I can.




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