A tree begins to expire in autumn.
Blooming is brisk -  
Soon its crown is ablaze,
Infiltrating through crimson, amber, vermillion!
The painter’s brush flourishes on each and every leaf.

Soon, cool temperatures and rain
Give rise to leaves fallow and  dissolving into concrete
And I wonder,
Is a leaf percolated by the ground just as noble?
Piles of their wet corpses by the curb suggest otherwise.