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Autumn leaves fly
in the wind, blow
across the land, crumble
under foot, and color
soil in shades alive.
Pages flutter,
as books are read,
folio all, tapestry
of words, sprinkle
silently across sight.
People wisp away
from our life, littering
memory with faint
remnants, crumbling heart,
and stalling soul.
© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin
Are There Literary Cults, and Are They Dangerous?
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In his short story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” Raymond
Carver sets two couples to talking on the subject of love, They are
drinking gin ...
2 hours ago
1 comment:
I love this poem! Wow. Especially the last stanza.
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