Nor will you ever see in nature death
so lightened in the shades of fallen leaves;
nor in their stacking on the hardened ground
decomposition’s tell-tale odour, only
slight fragrance, the broom and industrial blower
wade in with such vigour, to clear the area.
Yet, they re-appear with undue haste, merely
emphasising the season’s dominance,
full lease of days, something nature demands
in all phases: gestation, life, and passing
away: there is no abruption in process,
death seeming, is but time’s capitulation.
