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.
Copyright © Steve Hendrickson | Year Posted 2016
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