Autumn for Real

Leaves fall. We sweep them into heaps. Next day
the same again, and so it goes
to the last syllable, et cet. The way
leaves fall; we sweep them into heaps. Next day
as though we’ve never been — they’re here to stay.
The compost heap just grows and grows.
Leaves fall: we sweep them into heaps. Next day
the same again. And so it goes.


D.A. Prince

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  D.A. Prince  would like to hear them