why are these children running across a red-painted bridge—
they laugh at petals of a locust blowing in the breeze
I sit at this broken table made of wood
far away from here I taste spices on the wind
it is warm and sunny
and our eyes have met again
I am here with my tarnished brass scale
weighing this dead fish of forever
against all the paper moments
they blow away
lifted high into the blue
like many yellow maple leaves caught up in a whirl
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