Charlotte Ip

 If our minds were a tree, thoughts and memories would be its leaves – each similar but different, collectively a wondrous scene. Those we failed to cling to will fall, languish and be lost in the forgetful reds. The trees strip naked, our soul wanders, but so long as our yearn for knowledge burns, the lush green always returns. 

 

Yet writers like us are greedy, we see all leaves their own legacy. So we fashion ourselves as gardeners, we paint them gold while the green lingers, lest they fall in nature’s course, they shall live on as mystical folklores.