The golden leaves have fallen now—
cracked and brown and dying,
swirling in the autumn air
that slips around me, sighing.

All that’s left of a youthful dream,
conceived in winter’s wait
and born beneath the sun’s warm gaze
when all the trees create.

So soft—the pink and white unfolding—
blossoms on the trees
that hope and smile and laugh and dance
into the coming breeze.

And then the baby softness stretching
further in the wind—
the green that deepens as they grow
mature and strong like men.

How swiftly, though, the summers fade
and Autumn wilts away
the leaves of gold that newly budded
only yesterday.

I feel the joys of each new year
as spring time comes around,
yet through the laughter I still hear
the ever-haunting sound:

The rustling of the golden leaves—
the cracked, the brown, the dying,
swirling in the autumn air
that slips around me, sighing.