Maybe the wind can wash away our stories.

That’s what I want because

Even the stories I tell you aren’t true

And I know that

Despite that I’m being honest


But as the wind gusts

And tinkers with small leaves

I know the story I told you would be better off dead,

Like those leaves will die soon:

Dry, crinkle up, fall to the ground

And each season have the chance

To let the past years’ story

Of birth, growth, and changing colors

die off,

fall to the ground, blow away

and get rained on

to compost and rot


so new stories can eventually

tell themselves

all wet with anticipation

and Spring

so many months away.


Rot, rot, rot,

That’s all stories ever do.

They sink into the ground, all wet

And having lived too long already,

Told in all their forms

(except all the others).


But even as they rot

They were once tiny leaflets,

All thin and delicate with hope and beginning.

We didn’t know for sure they’d rot,

Though of course we should have.

How is it we didn’t know?

After all these years living alongside creation,

Pretending we are other

And our stories last forever.


Only the strongest of winds can remind us

How thin and frail they are,

How little we even know of their past,

Their processes, their origins,

And projected futures.


So sturdy we are though

So sturdy in our telling

Of all the things that have happened to us,

Of all the ways we’ve known color, shape

and decay


All the ways we’ve been pretty,

All the ways we’ve smelled rot,

Been blown off,

Been taken to and from where we belong.


Life is like that, whatever you are,

Wherever you go

And each time around

You know it less

In the telling

But more

In the blowing away.





I was talking to an old friend

And what do old friends do but discuss the characters

They both know

Make a shared story of mutual acquaintances

Who’ve blown away

Or even who’ve died


And leaves do that too,

But leaves don’t do that.


How else are we to know ourselves?

How else are we to grow alongside each other?


Or blow away one after another in the next windstorm,

Or in this very one.


It’s our turn to fall sometimes,

When the wind whistles our name

In leaf language

Which we’ve come to know how to hear


And blows us away on a trajectory

We’ve learned how to bear


Barren and dry

All crinkled up


Soggy like mustard

Heavy and free once we’ve fallen

And stuck to the ground


There was never anywhere to go but down


Despite gusts of wind blowing us every which way

In attempt to convince us

We were lost or temporary.


About chayaleah

Wellness coach helping you stay off psychiatric drugs, and find meaningful, safe, effective alternatives. Available by skype, phone and email as well as in person.
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