The bluest sky can't bring back the leaves,
That are red and brown.
They sit collected at the side of the street,
as cars go and speed by.
With never ending destinations and plans,
How can we stop and look,
at things the World gives. So natural and free,
No inventions are required.
The green grass can only grow so thick,
Before blades cut it down.
Why not let it grow and let it be?
In the suburbs and farms,
The wind's heard, rustling the remaining leaves,
along with the smell,
of home during the spring. When the cows,
have the lingering odor.
By this time, the leaves return green,
It'll be long before,
The leaves crumble and turn brown,
and red.  Maybe by this
Time, people will notice them,
collected along the street.