The gilded leaves of autumn sigh
and herein lies the reason why
soon, they know, their time to die.
Adorned for a season with colors grand
and yet somehow they understand
death by their Maker has been planned.
But many before have been blown and swirled
with Goodman Gust have danced and twirled
as if not to have a care in the world.
“A leaf I’ll be always” is there perception
crafted by a draft of deception
eternity is a far future conception.
And so they spend their days in ease
living free spirited among the trees
letting the winds blow where they please.
If they’re honest though, they have a hunch
colors will fade, be reduced to a crunch
grim reaper will give the knock out punch.