Fallen Leaves Have No Winter Lair
I watch as roaring winds accost
withered leaves that would soon be lost.
Branches, once laden green, beware ~
November will strip your limbs bare.
Your clothes swept to the muck and mire,
raked onto their funeral pyre.
Wet from drizzling rain, they are tossed,
weeping, as if they had been glossed.
A windswept death does not seem fair.
It fills me with grief and despair.
I would raise them up high...higher,
each leaf escaping flames of fire.
No headstone with name 'Leaf' embossed,
etched with November's snow and frost.
Fallen leaves have no Winter lair,
no warm warren as does the hare.
If Nature could somehow transpire
to save them, 'twould be my desire.
November 29, 2020
William Kekaula's Lay November Contest
checked with HMS
Copyright © Jenna Logan | Year Posted 2020
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