A leaf lets go and dying,
falls to the ground; falls
into the fresh concrete of a
new sidewalk, still staked
and taped off. Immortalized
now, the spidery veins
streak out from the midrib,
etched boldly, precisely, and
yet, a shadowed representation
of its existence.
Life is losing and
finding, and losing again,
hoping, in the end, to find.
Living is a thousand little
deaths; and a thousand and
one resurrections.
And the lines of all my
deaths are etched into my
skin, absorbed into my soul.
But isn’t that just it; we’re
all living to die? And in
dying, perhaps, living. 

© stephanie pepper, 2019

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