Autumn’s Fool, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Autumn’s Fool

The tired falling leaves, of the tilted birch
Flutter like the wings, of a butterfly
Each frantically, for a place they search
A soft place, to lie for they know they die

It is solemn reminder, that I too
Need to be prepared, for my final day
As to its coming, I have not a clue
And for that restive day, I have no say

But as the birch, for the spring I will wait
Will fight with my every breath, winter’s chill
No more will I fear, the locked pearly gate
Smiling, I’ll hunt, for the first daffodil

For as I make an attempt at reason
Why this is to be my final season

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