*
rustling the rusted
leaves run the ground
the rain of the dead
becomes the soft sound
of the lower wind
rearranging the streets
of an early autumn
.

*
rustling the rusted
leaves run the ground
the rain of the dead
becomes the soft sound
of the lower wind
rearranging the streets
of an early autumn
.
*
the leaves fall
with the same dancing
moves of butterflies
flights wearing
in this season
the same hues
it’s the enchantment
of summer ending
rays to weave
weaker and weaker
as time goes by
.
*
last rays bright
casting
elaborate shadows
.
embroidering walls
chilling the air
shivering a bit I rest
.
.