that i have met your like,
for even the young trees turn only so green
before the reds, golds and browns
of autumn set in.
but you, my friend,
have somehow attained a deeper shade.
remain then aways as the leaf, which,
even after falling is free to travel on
with but the touch of a breeze.
for it is the bough, laden with years,
that falls, rotten, to the ground,
and the root, lacking water,
that withers and dies.
11/2/1974
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