The fall

I am beginning to brown, my time has come. All used up, I’ve served well. 

But I fear the fall, I’m not ready to go. 

So I cling hard to this branch, it’s all that I know. 

But to struggle is futile, of this I am sure. 

What’s left is to relax. 

Release. 

And as that gentle breeze comes, it finds me ready. To fall is so natural. 

And only once I’ve landed do I realize—  

I was the tree all along.