February 12, 2016

It was not yet spring
When they found her,
The tree she chose
Still stood barren in
Winter’s last breath.

The coroner confirmed
She had done it herself,
Leapt from the branches
Some time Friday night.
Now, Monday morning,
The groundskeeper saw
Her shadow cast upon
The dew-sodden lawn.

She held no name, nor
Wallet or purse. Instead,
Her only clue lie on the
Scrap of paper within
Her tightly bound hand:
“Raisons d’être,” her
Reasons for living.  

The irony was not lost
On the students, though
When asked it seemed
That no one could
Remember her name.



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