We are like leaves.
Rising, growing, beautiful.
Then falling, rotting, decaying.
Our lives are like a season,
in a world of many more.
We get only a glimpse,
and only a small chance,
to be more than we are.
To be seen, remembered.
To be heard, to mark the world.
Then we are gone, like dust,
back from where we came.
Our time, is most precious,
in this strange place,
that we inhabit together.
Yet we can’t grasp it.
We cannot hold on.
With it we will fall,
like the leaves in the winter,
and we will return to the earth,
she who first gave us life.
Poetry