there’s a small park: three tall trees
in a broad bed of grey slate chips;
this autumn afternoon, the trees
have shed their golden-yellow leaves
over the grey ground; the gardener
has carefully brushed them with his wooden broom
off the chips, and into tidy golden rings
around the bases of the trees;
as if the leaves were gathered in some joyful ceremony
of gratitude, respect, and friendship; not farewell,
but time dissolved into a circled beauty;
the passers-by note this timeless act of worship;
share this with the others as they pass,
politely glancing towards strangers;
meeting, respectfully, not their eyes,
but, as leaves to trees, their heart.

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