I seesaw in the winds,
strain at my attachment
to temporary branch.
Once a budding promise,
my season come and gone.
I do not contribute,
but suck from shriveled teats.
Until the final breeze
when I am ripped away
to drop in, to flow.
Carried down in currents
away from reservoirs
of irrelevant past.
To collect in cesspools,
and clog public sewers,
or be swept out to sea.
Returning to my source
to commingle in waves
that renew my spirit,
begin again, cycles,
of life everlasting.

M. Zane McClellan

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