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Last leaves of spring
March 24, 2019
The warm air blows by me,
Rustling my hair.
It is bright and colorful as far as I can see.
Everywhere but there.
There is a stubborn tree.
It holds tightly onto its dead and dying leaves.
Brown, dry and crumpled.
It cannot see past its grudges, they will not leave.
The trees that are forgiving and see past tomorrow are growing blossoms of every hue.
But not you.
You are the tree that is weak for its hate and has no room left to grow.
When will you let go?
© Olivia E., Alto, MI
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This poem is about how holding on to hatred isn't in any way beneficial.