Fall: pumpkin spice lattes and decay.

Actually, this post has nothing to do with warm beverages, but I did write a poem.

For now, this poem is untitled.

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At the behest 
of impetuous autumn winds,
a solitary leaf falls 
patiently.

Dancing down 
in methodical turns,
a journey of seconds
to the forest floor,

where there is no memory
of its certain shape or mother tree,
just a hidden thread
in the molding, umber tapestry. 

Yet, in a gale,
when a hundred stems break at once,
crisp, amber showers
descending,

this worn tale of life retreating,
this earthen scent, 
this fading sign,
somehow echoes of eternity.

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