Trees shed their leaves
like pages vanishing.
Life exhausts its meanings.
Winter howls.
Laughter dies.
Clocks go round and round,
where their place is
only time can tell,
hour or the day.
Storms come,
and fall asleep.
Shadows scuttle on the snow.
Something whispers
in a far off dream,
enough, enough.
Where spring rises
is faraway.
I am left,
and fathom something
dark and sad.
What will winter
make of me?
Outside,
leaves falling
beautiful and bright,
but those pages
drifting down,
are they the last
I’ll read
of leaves and spring?