Autumn

There's a half broken glass whiskey bottle
lying in front of a porch swing.
Its sunspot gleaming intensively
can be seen yards away.

On the playground,
the red plastic slide
on a mound of wood chips,
stands erect and untouched;
only brushed slightly by the sashaying
of falling leaves.

The wind whisk through
the tree top canopy;
A small forest median
dividing the rural life
from the freedom of the highway.

A reddish-purple sunset
sinks behind the forest.
Miles and miles away
its presence can still be felt.

The bird's roosted high above
echo their calls;
Taunting
an old stray panting,
as he sniffs and then waits
For his owner,
who will never come back.

There's a new becoming in the distance
as the moon can be seen peeking
out from the clouds.
The middle of September is coming
day by day to its finale;
to hide away back under
a showering of leaves.

And what creatures,
Whom I do not and cannot see,
Will take it upon themselves
to use the leaves as shelter.

The last storm perhaps for awhile,
Crackles with the sounding of drums.
The roll of thunder cries to heaven,
For the coming of the sun.

As nature begins to die,
a new-found sense of living
Is unearthed in me.
Summer is dead,
Yet a new year to live for
Is soon to rise.

Autumn comes,
And with eyes stitched shut,
I open my arms,
And look up towards the azure of the sky.

I fall back onto the Earth's shawl,
while a bell in the distance,
rings of hope, of a future time.
Hidden within my white smile,
a laugh lies intact.
Even in nature's death,
there is rebirth.

Don't we all dream and not wish to know,
that as the seasons grow old,
we pass unknowingly onward,
back to that familiar comfort zone;
A lost soul running back home.