The Red Plauge


Do not gaze lovingly when summer turns to fall.
It is akin to admiring murder.

Each year the leaves fall ill,
Because of hostile winds
They suffer, turn color, and fall

They lay at the base of their old home,
Forced to make the frosty ground their death bed,
Surrounded by dying friends

I mourn for the leaves who have been
Mutilated by rakes,
Stomped on by boots,
And kicked by kids

Leaves die swiftly from sickness every year,
Every year they gather
Crumpled, and rusted
To sink into the soil
Or be discarded like trash.

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