As the leaves fall
I lift myself up
To replace its abundant emptiness.

For the world has turned pale
Since the color returned to you
For I have become an empty book
Since I have been read and used
For I have been washed away
When the river of musings
Have dried up from
A storm of old stories of
Nothing new
That's never been told

Still
I'd rather be the white maple
Of short lived pleasant surprises
Of a kind of soul you never knew
Than the anticipated
Colorful few
Among
The vast insignificance
Of an all brilliant view.