Withered leaves are falling curled up looking
like empty ice cream cones. I picked a couple
put them in the breast pocket of my shirt;
then rain, I got soaking wet on my scooter.
The leaves looked like dead hands of someone
long time gone, veins and sinew without skin.
I sought shelter behind a big grave stone that
would protect me from the westerly wind.
It didnīt, so I just sat there sinking into the soft
ground becoming an autumnal leaf.
Had earth in my mouth when it stopped raining
and sun broke through. Dug myself out of this
unwanted grave caked by drying mud, and not
again shall I pick dead leaves when there are
evergreens around that will promise life eternal.