“And…to pass and continue…I depart as air, I shake
my white locks
at the runaway sun.”

                                                             Walt Whitman
Pursuit and loss cling,
long, to material gain,
always with bound wings,
never staked though, once achieved.
Together stitched, left wanting.
The graves built on need,
require and death; lack’s last gift.
Everyone’s abundant lift,
even passing, is light and,
sweet life. What is inside leaves?