Woods filled with dead leaves:
Wind gust scratches some on road;
Patch of sunlight shines.
Little red wagon waits;
There is so much that can fill it;
Just what will that be?
Wind gathers in woods;
Leaves billow on to the road;
Wind gathers again.
It lies like sculpture
This reclining lichened tree,
With its living paint.
Last few leaves hang here,
Dangling precipitously--
A matter of time.
Mini green forest
Thrives at base of the tree
Its own universe.
Bird call is so faint
It seems to have disappeared.
Then it reappears.
Clouds come like the night
Obliterating the sun.
Then, brief, instant dawn.
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