I hear the soft crumpling of leaves
beneath the paws of life
One must wither eventually, right?
I look down on grass
burnt brown from age
and rake the leaves away
with memories from summers page;
torn from the book of life
The branches on a tree
beneath a rumbling sky does sway
as if to say
goodbye
The tinkling of raindrops;
wet against dry
as if, for a moment
in mourning, clouds cry
for the soft crumpling leaves no more
Arms stretched out
eyes moist with hope
I pray for their souls to be nourished
in the memories of summers dew