"Dead leaves lay still until the wind takes them
here and there: even the last flower is withered:
yet there is a beauty in decay. "
~ Constance La France
Dead leaves, they fall, fall
Dancing with the wind
Brown branches enthrall
Looking cool, bare-skinned
Flowers, they've withered
Dry and drooping down
Fall has slow slithered
Changing Nature's gown
Beauty can be seen
Ev'n in this decay
There's a silent sheen
To this bloomless gray
Decay is needed
To gain life anew
Death has preceded
Spring in Nature's view
There'll be no rain the forecast said
til January's wounded pride
erupts upon the bloomless beds
and weeps a pewter morning tide.
There'll be no rain for many weeks,
just plenitudes of overcast
that burn away as daylight peaks,
when noon's anemic sun is cast.
There'll be no rain, no wet respite
to irrigate depleted earth,
just flaxen grass in withered plight
that dampens all my yuletide mirth.
There'll be no rain this Christmas Day,
just arid hillsides' umber splay.
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