The holler and weary of fallen leaves
that scatter from thin limb to thin limb
Does scorn 'neath their own weaves
in the night which grows- shady to dim.
In the wet and the bleak- the fall falls gently.
And in tune of the mourn, the horse's shoe
does trample on ground with rustle and woo.
The thin leaves take a travel on the trail,
to which the fallen on- the dirt and nature's mire-
I pick up the leaves at the bottom of my foot
And grab a stick and flick it all off the bottom of my boot.
Copyright © brittany martin