~by Ananda Vrindavan
The leaves are almost to an end
Coming into burnt and dull colors
Even against the sun and blue sky
The cold creeps in on early morning
The cold hand of fear grips us tightly
As we try to wrap ourselves away from it.
The leaves are almost at an end
The quiet dark of winter comes early
And evening lights turn on by five.
Winter waves of joy
Rustle the last of the leaves
Piling them into heaps on the ground
Waiting for pick up by hard and underpaid
Workers, many of whom may feel like those leaves
That they can be pushed aside, pushed around,
Swept up to be cast away at a moment’s notice.
And we wonder at the discontent around us?
We are emptier of love than the bare trees
And more fallen than the leaves we walk on.