Crimson leaves drift to the ground
On autumn’s breeze
Floating aimlessly as my thoughts. . .
Destined to be surrounded
Layer upon layer;
Each leaf having unique
Yet similar substance.
In their fall to await Death,
Their beauty has never been
Quite as lovely
Nor their colors nearly as vivid;
Returning to eventual mulch,
Nourishment for a new beginning,
Only hinting they are renewing life
With a whisper of the wind.
For Amelia Harmon's "Fall Contest"