Craig W. Steele

How beautifully leaves grow old.
How full of light and color are their last days.
? John Burroughs

The maples are shedding their colorful tresses
as leaves filter down through the autumn’s chill sky.
Like sand grains in timers, the countdown progresses
without ever knowing the where or the why.

As leaves filter down through the autumn’s chill sky,
they’re tossed by the breezes, swirling in flocks
without ever knowing the where or the why—
innumerable shards of the drowsy trees’ clocks.

They’re tossed by the breezes, swirling in flocks
without any thoughts and without any reasons—
innumerable shards of the drowsy trees’ clocks,
now marking anew the passage of seasons.

Without any thoughts and without any reasons,
like sand grains in timers, the countdown progresses;
now marking anew the passage of seasons,
the maples are shedding their colorful tresses.