They wither

And here we see the fall of them with the advent of summers…

They wither now,


unperfected with dots of dissuading heat,

I touch the touch of seasons, take it in my palm

and feel the life seeping away, I free the force

plucking it from the scratched wooded source,

and set it on the iron bar, its last touch of height.


It stays in between weighing the air towards me

and that which would have it reach the ground,

exasperated and thoughtless that I can be,

I seize it once again and drop it, turning my back,

not to see its final journey end, by my hand.


They wither, now I melt.


Photograph clicked 19 March’14, presented with a hundred-worded verse.

* 11 April 2014, The new leaves now adorn the pillar of strength. Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

24 thoughts on “They wither

  1. there is a serious and interesting philosophical question underneath this..almost like assisted death….freeing it to take that finally journey, whether we are willing to watch it or not….intriguing verse….


  2. This poem awes me with its depth & meaning. I read it a few times, each time taking more from it. Though they wither, there are always more to come….


  3. How unique this is! Are we responsible for what we save? Are we just delaying the inevitable? I have preserved leaves between pages of books, and I am trying to do the same with people, I think, in a different way. I truly enjoyed your two part truth in poetic form.


  4. love the little intimate touch with nature…taking it in your hand and feeling the life ebbing…and then letting it go…life will come again…it is the seasons…it is the way…


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