leaves litter the ground
like the books spread across my desk
cluttering the streets and the lawns
like the trees are trying to tell us something
like these notes are bound to help me
remember something that I've lost
could it be that our lives are echoes
riding carelessly (or meaningfully)
on the late-Autumn wind?
are our lives meant to be
nothing more than a slight
(or definite) chill
surging through the air
like a current pulling back the sea
or slowly washing over everything?
frantically written messages
scrawled across pages and pages
desperately trying to win a war
that's been fought for generations
convinced that the trees
are trying to tell us something
if I were falling helplessly
twirling in the late-Autumn wind
would you stop and watch me fall?
our scarfs, our jackets
our sweaters
are subtle reminders
of the mysteries
locked away
with the colors of the season
if you came across me
laying poignantly on the lawn
would you sit and wait with me?
nights spent in libraries
tracing out histories
convinced that the trees
are trying to tell us something
convinced that I can find
something that I've lost
wading through streets
filled with dried leaves
like fallen soldiers
days getting shorter
nights getting colder
and cozy homes awaiting
our safe return
kept safe by our scarfs
and our jackets
if you stepped on me
would you savor the sound?
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