by Michael Sherrillo
In green youth we each hold fast,
To the trunk of our family tree.
Then, when grown, we all fall off,
And each of us is tossed and turned,
As we are all cast our seperate ways.
Each leaf comes to a place of rest,
Some close, while others still far away.
And sitting, we age, turn brittle and brown.
But the winds of time continue to blow,
Leaving none of us unchanged.
And now, we fly again, as dust,
And in that wind, find each other the same.