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Fragile

It is October and the trees shake their arms in grief - or maybe fatigue. The leaves shatter into red, yellow, orange, and brown fragments. I watch their pieces whisk up into the air, swirl in their last dance, and settle on the path.

My broken, little pieces are also there, dancing and spinning with the leaves. 

Each night, in the wee hours, I sneak out into the street searching for and gathering the pieces of me back up. I am there creeping along the dark paths, scooping the pieces of me back up into my arms to put myself back together for the next day. 

Back at home, in my office, I stand in the soft light balancing each piece carefully on top of the last piece. Balanced. Glued. It is the secret work of late nights. I toil away as quietly and secretly as possible. And I try to carefully put myself back together. And I secretly try to be whole.

I would like to wear a sign warning people: Fragile. 

Please, do not breath too hard on me.

I am ever so fragile.


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