Autumn is on the wind, the spirts
Of the sky have flown south, for
Winters breath has begun to bite. In
The cool damp air I can smell them,
The dying leaves, breezing ever
So gently past my feet, blown by
The reaping wind in rote. Yet,
Not one weeps for their passing.
It is only I who weeps for I know
The secret they keep hidden,
Cinched in amber and lurid hues.
I watch them as drift and sway,
Tumbling over one another to
their final resting place to die
forgotten. Each falling leaf,
A grain of sand, a second, hour,
Another moment closer to the
Cessation of our existence
The fleeing multitudes to
Many to hold on to.
This is one of those poems that, when you start you mean to go one direction but takes on another while writing. I meant for it to be longer piece but I felt I have said what I needed to. Any criticism would be appreciated. Thanks.
- Arthur Blank