Crunching

Past loves emerge and bloom at autumn’s heart Quick’ning with the blow and crunch of leaves. The life has left the earth and made us part To go our separate ways when seasons meet. For o’er the planets face the way is strewn With bits of death once living in the skies. For they’ve all seen the later harvest moon And dread the looming, chilly, longer nights. The noise of crunching temps the jovial sorts Who long for the destruction of the past. The woeful cry is made for others’ sport Who know old things are never blessed to last. Seek not a way in which to make amends. The way will only crunch, it will not bend.