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.
Copyright © Christian Mikkelson | Year Posted 2007
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