A yielding of the yield

It’s been a week of evenings with gusty winds. The trees sway! They come ever so close to my window, I want to let them in, shelter them from the wind. But they stay rooted afar. Held firm, as they bow, recline and shed leaves in decline. At times, flowers that once blossomed, perform a swan song of their own as they too wither away as the trees sway.
I watch the leaves deposited ever so gently onto the ground, even as the tree shook violently. They now carpet the floor, rustling, refusing to be ruin.

things decaying, declining and things blossoming were all held once, and the weather simply pruned them alike. A weather that was violent yet gentle. A weather that carefully laid to rest what was pruned, and yet hurriedly deposited dust on my windows. I wish I could sway!