It seems there is no single integral way
Of grappling with the world , in its nights
Of darkness hiding trees after their silent
Manouevres in a day of their making stuff
Plain green stuff in leaves of yellow light.

Another leaf is my own  fragmentariness.
I am a leaf to be removed from its winter.
Like this man severed from his leafy past
Now earth and water in the sea of a sky
Fragment of event that is not whole of life
A broken life, from a  winter of the past.

My reading is fragmentary , wholly digital.
My  grasp of the wholeness of a wired life 
Is  leaves from someone else's digital diary.
My verse is  leaves fallen of a winter of age.
This life is  fragmentary, a heap of images
Like many-hued splinters in a kaleidoscope.


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