​Here I rest
cracked and brittle.
From tip to stem
and doing little,
but lay in the gutter
awaiting wind’s whims
dreaming what it’d be like
to be supple and green again.
But that denuded bitch
she let me go,
to humiliating ridicule
of raucous crows.
Once her crowning laurel leaf,
Now cast off to die of grief.
My fellows and I
become a pile,
left to deteriorate
in too short a while.
But look, the glow
of yon bonfire.
Is this to become our
funeral pyre?
No longer colorful,
but just a joke,
my life gone up
in smoke.

M. Zane McClellan

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