The leaves are coming Down now,
and I’m sure they’ll all drown in the coming November rains.
Their colors cry out to me, saying,
“We are too colorful to drown in such Ill Ceremony,
is this really how a Leaf should die?”
Little do they realize that they’re already dead,
having fallen from the tree,
and it is just their Ghosts talking now.
I can imagine one morning
when the sun cracks over the horizon,
their specters will finally look
and actually see themselves, brittle and lifeless,
sopping wet on the soggy ground.
The sheer shock of the sight
will Rapture them up to to the leaf heavens.
Who will remember them?
Only the trees
from which they once hung,
now naked and cold in the New Winter.
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