Home > Poetry, Writing > Autumn



Who killed the leaves?
They do not say. The sit silent
on the ground, scattered like stars,
a hurricane of colors, a small reminder
of life before death.

The sunflowers have gone, shriveled
and shepherded into shadow,
and if you ask where they were,
few people will remember enough
to tell you – the forget-me-nots
will simply snicker in their graves.

The air now feels like winter, a gale
of frost and chilled steel, winds
squealing about like a shroud, icing
the river, slowing the blood,
and numbing the marrow.

Who killed the leaves?
I do not know. But all the people stop
and stare, eyeing the transformation,
eyeing the wreckage, questioning the crow,
the pale grass, the unmourned
moment where life became death,
and a last chance was lowered into the ground,
heaped with dirt, and left
where the bell tolls in October.

Only time
can reason it out, expose the earth
for what it holds, surprising
who remains in the Garden
come April.

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