Autumn Rain

It is the only thing alive for miles; A wilted tree, with branches branched around For hollow life—a crooked form—with piles Of dying leaves, despite the rain around. A single cheerless leaf of pallid hue Lies waiting for the rain of sustenance; Another leaf departed; mournful view Devoured in ichor—rain of greyish glance. Is it the end? Perhaps it is the end. Is happiness a distant thing to fall? Tis not a question but a hardened bend, With frost a coming, death would see its fall Beneath the frozen earth; a burial urn Of solid clay, the autumn’s gradual; turn.