If you ask how I am

There are still leaves
Hanging from these branches

That wind is ready to pluck

And their yellow and copper pattern
Don’t seem to still resemble blood.

Wind can harm it no more
What keeps the trunk steady is the soil

The clay underneath is hard as stone
After showered with water
And rinsed with salt.

But what the tree keeps to repeat
Whispering softly to the thin air

Asking it, quietly, tenderly.

Please, stay away.

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