Saturday, December 1, 2012

In the failing light of autumn

The sweet scent of dying
leaves. The wind has sifted
through them all: the shriveled
ashen brittle papers, the dusty
wisps of withered parchments,
blown and scattered, caressed
and battered, by the frigid sighs
of grieving, in the failing light
of autumn, lost in shadows
and tomorrow forgotten.

1 comment:

Martin said...

I very much like this poem - autumn leaves are so gregarious.