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Poem

Shall we fall like the leaves of autumn or have we fallen already?
Monotonous experiences leave one bored
Only excited/entertained/inspired 
By the kaleidoscopic collage of leaves changing colors about the host of trees,
Surely the trees have something to say,
With no mouths to mutter, the friendly wind shakes out their speech and its coolness makes it crisp.
Feel comfortable in the fall…
Or rather late summer, as it was the season of my entrance into the world upon the earth
It is no wonder I am consoled as the trees communicate their ritual aging
As if to show how one dies in each year passing in the infinitely perishing years of yesterdays.
Though I share not my grave with another man(I have already shared my life), I shall share it with the dying leaves when dead.
-both dead the leaves and I
Has my spirit existed infinitely-without beginning or end?
Or shall it only last from birth to death?
Has it enjoyed the yesterdays without recollection and enjoy these days still yet unknown?
By and by into the future
For every fall of sort was I there? 
For the fall of man, and be there to see him rise in the end (if perhaps he ever will)
Am I like the seasonally falling leaves?
There, and gone, and back again?
Woe is every man and talking tree
Alas the spirit alive for now though it may not feel as so.
Still yet neither should be depressed by the conformity of the world.
Instead we grow into our own existence
Nourished by the earth and loved by all it beholds.
In abundant beauty this lesson taught because something chose to give us fall.

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