The leaves lay in the sun atop the hill,

Crisply drying with several morning hues,

Blowing around in the wind, slightly chill

They’re whisked away, not leaving any clues.

Crunching loudly under these two small feet.

Dropping down from the sky like a feather.

Quiet whispers as they scrape down the street,

Like they’re not built for this kind of weather.

The leaves fall from the trees and seem like they’re dead

From green to brown and now ceasing to thrive

Piling up and making an ugly bed

But their death will make the world alive.

Colors blending together; Beautiful

things like this make life very wonderful.