Poetry


LEAVES

Brown and red with veins of gold

Ennui crawls across their wrinkled skins

A sudden gust of wind takes hold

And thus the end begins


One at first

And then another

And soon the sky is full


Dancers twirling without a care

Descending slow, slow, slow


A toss, then a flip

There is no up but down


One at first

And then another

And soon the ground becomes a crown


A picket of blades; a mound of stems

What is left for thee?


Nothing now but in the ground

You see, leaves still feed the trees


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