Leaves Talking
Lovely golden red-tinged leaves seem lost in conversation,
Eloquently rustling as they flutter to the ground.
Autumn’s breeze is whispering to them a revelation.
Vanquished they are soon to be. Vanished – they will have no sound.
Eerily the evening creeps, its shadows enveloping the trees.
Stirring in the wind, the leaves now hiss as November’s grieves.
Trembling are the leaves that on lush boughs once brightly swayed.
Ashen is their world; murmuring with fear, crestfallen they lie,
Longing for the green of summer,
Knowing they soon will fade. . . .
Inglorious is our end! Can you hear their forlorn cry?
Now the wind is quiet, and the leaves have all grown still.
Gone is Harvest Moon. First snow falls with a silent chill.
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