Witness

When the shooting star
was trying
to pause between
life and death
it was calling for help;
the sky was silently
watching.

When the severed leaf
was trying to rest
between breaths
it was screeching for help;
the tree, a witness
became its shelter,
but it was too light,
way too detached
to stay put.

A somnambulist writer
was watching the sky
underneath the tree.