Leaves falling,

Leaves falling,

Spinning aimlessly,

Dead butterflies

Caught in the wind,

Wings curled

Against the cold.

Fractured spindles

Dusted with

Burnished gold,

Already fading.

Lightly they touch,

Ground.

Floating in the run-off,

Softening,

From red to muddy brown,

Barely breaking

The surface tension.

Too late to drown.

Lives were lost

Before the fall

And the wind

Took its toll.

The short term

Memory of trees,

Washed into

The gutter,

Organic clutter

Turning to mulch,

Choking the life

Out of death,

Draining down

Into the earth,

With nary a cry

Of crushed dreams

Or bleak despair,

To strangle

The silent whisper

Of nature’s repair,

When a

Seasonal striptease

Of last summer’s

Soiled clothes,

Is but a rehearsal,

For the spring time

Reversal.