The old clocks hands are missing now,
time measured only by the falling leaves,
weaving dirt roads into multicolored carpets,
celebrating autumns brief reign.
The beauty of it’s ephemeral kingdom
Sun-dried, frost brittled,
each admirer’s tread hurrying it’s transition.
Ever smaller particles, cold brittled,
entombed by ice,
in warming earth,will thaw in spring.
Then, morphing into hungry soil,
grow riotous in manic summer sun
to drop bright fruit when summer wanes
and so turning, begin again.