Unmoving

You have pushed and moved and forced and plowed and focused and forged over the years.  With more or less delicacy, depending on the season.  

Your movements never ceased, too much to do, never a moment to spare.  You do not even know where the time to get here, where you are today, came from.  A gift though.  

On this day, your movements have stopped.  You've burned all the leaves you've raked over these years.  Autumn burnt shades, fire and amber.  Your own heat and resin, gone.

And so you are finally left standing.  Still.  And corrected.