Rustle of dead leaves
As they collect all over,
Curling, brown and dry.
Feathered white fountains;
Thin wispy plants catch the sun
And transform themselves.
A gentle breeze blows;
So gentle that I could miss it;
But the leaves notice.
A patch of sunlight
In the darkness of the woods,
Like a fairy cove.
Floating gently down,
Large streaked yellow leaves descend,
And glide noiselessly.
Through many seasons,
Tree monster has held the rock.
It just won't let go.
Dry, gray Queen Anne's Lace
As it might look in a book
Pressed between pages.
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