Fallen Leaves

An open space of grassland

with a solitary tree,

and a person on a bench

with a pad and pen at hand,

at peace where he’s left to be

with obligations to quench.

Remembering his last venture,

the wind wasn’t so cruel and cold

and his tree was full of proud leaves.

Now they lie scattered and used,

every last detail has been mentioned,

every last story has almost been told

however there’s more yet to be achieved

for springtime’s leaves grow fresh and less abused.

He feels the warmth of ideas

for there’s more seeds yet to plant

and more beauty to admire.

Falling leaves cease, no more falling tears,

He can still rite his ode and his rant

of all things despised, desired, and feared.