For Papa
the wind this month of
september
blows the leaves
towards the
hidden mountain.
they are scattered
and cannot continue holding
their tips
they have lost the hands of
the stems that
give them the sense of holding
i raise my fingers
to touch the old tree
on top of the hill
where our old house stands
the clouds have since
drifted towards the sea
and i never had
the chance to hold them
for you papa
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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