With Dying Leaves

   
With Dying Leaves
  
I walked upon a winding path in autumn in the woods.
The leaves were crunching underfoot, a chill was in the air.
The afternoon was still that day, and I could hear the birds
That called out clear from far away – I could not tell from where.

I walked upon a winding path beneath the soaring trees,
With leaves that ranged in colors from the greens to burning reds.
And some of these were drifting down, as I was slowly walking,
Looking at them lying there, like corpses in their beds.

But even those in withered states were blest, in their repose –
Composed, and left with beauty, grace, as humans rarely are,
Whenever it is time to leave – for some may go in peace,
But others mostly don’t, as we're forever roiled by war. 

I walked upon a winding path – as all our lives we do.
It was autumn, with the fallen leaves like corpses on the ground.
And some were crunching underfoot, as some of us are crushed.
And far away I heard the birds – a distant, peaceful sound.

And I remember fragrances – the scents of dying leaves
And other scents that issue forth from woodland in the fall.
If only our departures were as fragrant as were these,
We wouldn’t mind, we wouldn’t mind – our dying, not at all.

2014  May 3rd, Sat., 3:40 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.