Strange to be left
in a heap of
gathered, russet
autumnal leaves.
The story has no end;
interminable time,
but as we leave,
becoming coarse & brittle; dead,
new, green buds grow where we
once were;
soon to flower,
rich in colour,
not yet faded
or distorted
by time.
If I was once a jewel-like flower, rich
& transient,
am I less lovely now that I am gone?