Take a minute
And ten seconds,
A vine has roots,
Twelve dozen branches
Seventeen hundred birds in song
And six thousand leaves to boot.

Pick a petal
To watch it fall,
Some blossoms know
Tomorrow’s hope.
Autumn falls,
But spring breaks forth.

Yet.
Yet yet.
Yet yet yet yet yet yet yet.
Yet yet.
Yet.

I’ll get out of this white paper box yet.

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But when the wanderer emerges, against all odds, from the wind-ravaged wasteland, do you recognize him? Or has the malady taken from you his eyes so far that you cannot meet them in those dark nights, taste the relief of oasis in drought, or experience the joy of lifted misery endured. Is it regret that turns face away, or is it the pain of empathy and the lurking tug inside at that same wasteland that turn warm cheek to cold shoulder?


Take a minute
And ten seconds,
A vine has roots,
Twelve dozen branches
Seventeen hundred birds in song
And six thousand leaves to boot.

Pick a petal
To watch it fall,
Some blossoms know
Tomorrow’s hope.
Autumn falls,
But spring breaks forth.

Yet.
Yet yet.
Yet yet yet yet yet yet yet.
Yet yet.
Yet.

I’ll get out of this white paper box yet.

Can fear refuse to display itself on the face of the weary, or is it the beleaguerement of hope that earns gray hairs and ragged scars? Is it the constant, superhuman strength of mind that turns youthful hope into wisened grace, or is it forged in the bloody, sweat-stained corner of a fighter’s ring?


Take a minute
And ten seconds,
A vine has roots,
Twelve dozen branches
Seventeen hundred birds in song
And six thousand leaves to boot.

Pick a petal
To watch it fall,
Some blossoms know
Tomorrow’s hope.
Autumn falls,
But spring breaks forth.

Yet.
Yet yet.
Yet yet yet yet yet yet yet.
Yet yet.
Yet.

I’ll get out of this white paper box yet.

Envy away, future traveler. You will find no greener grass than your front lawn but the journey is where you discover the More Than You that shatters your Me. Perhaps the wind burned face will not forget so quickly to smile at children and cry with the broken. Maybe the faded eyes will deepen their depth and brighten their light. Maybe they will not forget.

Maybe they will remember.

Take a minute
And ten seconds,
A vine has roots,
Twelve dozen branches
Seventeen hundred birds in song
And six thousand leaves to boot.

Pick a petal
To watch it fall,
Some blossoms know
Tomorrow’s hope.
Autumn falls,
But spring breaks forth.

Yet.
Yet yet.
Yet yet yet yet yet yet yet.
Yet yet.
Yet.

I’ll get out of this white paper box yet.

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