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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
What We Write About When We Write About Grief, Part Two
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[image: David Corbett for Writer Unboxed]
*Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament.*
*Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.*
—William Shak...
4 days ago
1 comment:
I love this poem! Wow. Especially the last stanza.
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