CHANGE
The little acorn became a tree
Then it died.
No leaves came in the spring.
Nothing lives
Without loss,
Whatever it be.
Sun, earth, moon.
Loss in a moment,
Of a passing thought,
Lost as quickly as it came.
Loss of innocence,
Even one’s own self
Goes where the acorn ends.
DR. KARL WALLACE DDS
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poems go to:
karlwallacaeblog.blogspot.com