Maybe it is the evidence of lives
Once lived, that live no longer.
Maybe it is lungs devoid of air,
Eyes without something to see.
Maybe it is the silence of the trees
And the beauty of the blossoms.
Maybe it is death, engulfed so starkly by life.
A reminder that my thoughts are not unique
And my words, not entirely my own.
For the stone and the leaves,
They give gifts to me:
Gifts that give way to memories.