I imagine Sisyphus less happy

If I could occupy myself in the same way

as the November leaf will fall

from dry weather steady branches

to damper days on the ground

and gain the certainty of such a short two-stage difference

made in the purpose of seasons

through the migration of waters

by the resolution of the winds;

not facing the disappearance of myself in prolonged detachment

nor over-reaching my needs against a flattened surface

but suggesting the appearance of time in a repeat movement instead

trying to settle the panicking of my roots

and the loosening this causes:

which opens the ground, bears me to my collapse;

so finding, somehow, a single distance between standing and falling over,

 

Then, perhaps, next November, there would no longer be a leaf to fall.

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