Autumn Poem

The leaves are turning
and so comes the obligatory photos
and poems (and this one included):
Dry crumpled detritus snaps from branches
and blows away, coloring sidewalks
and church-yards and golf courses. It is
an ironically colorful sort of death
that permeates these late days.
I’m sure, too, it’s the end of an era
in someone’s overall inconsequential
microcosm, but that’s to be expected:
The winds blow change in every year,
don’t they?

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