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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
“So What Kind of Writer Are You?”
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I love books more than bagels. More than jewelry, or cashmere sweaters (and
trust me, I love bagels, jewelry, and cashmere). Reading likely kept me
from ...
3 hours ago
1 comment:
I love this poem! Wow. Especially the last stanza.
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