What Was. . .
Hours fall silent in Autumn’s dappled shade
The undertone
Impending death
Swallowed in fiery grandeur.
Illusion of beauty
Laid waste by crackling footfall.
Wind torn branches
Stripped barren
Their cold black fingers
Silhouetted against the potential dawn
Where murderous flocks huddle
Waiting for light,
Warmth.
Never comprehending
Both are gone.
Sarah Reichert Author 
You always hit a resonence with me, once well before I met your mother I wrote poem about fall in which I lamented the leaves having to die so that I could ski. I now have a sense that I was being vain to the max!As if the world responds to an individual!
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Sometimes humans get too big for our britches! Ha! thanks for your comment ❤️
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