lie scattered on the ground like
memories fallen in battle,
The voice of color
lighting up the earth with the
last plumage of the dying year.
They clatter in the golden breeze,
in language too old to remember,
too familiar to forget.
Mother tree, drowsy with cold,
sings a lullaby to her windswept children,
a tender farewell that only they can hear.
Lingering sunshine eases the pain of days.
The light’s constant purpose
draws our eyes forever to the sky.
Michael James Fitzgerald