Death of The Season
The dead leaves crunch beneath my feet.
With each step I take.
Only a few stragglers remain on the branches.
Some drop to the ground.
When the wind picks up.
A yellow leaf twirls and dances.
To the ground before me.
Strange how death can be so beautiful.
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About Maison Moonchild
A Canadian gal that firmly believes words can change the world. An avid reader, writer and Halloween enthusiast. She has a special interest in communications and writes for pleasure and profession. She moonlights as a metaphysical maven with a knack for creating magical crystal jewelry and holiday accessories.
Lisa Loves Words 
lovely… 🙂
Death or the onset of slumber? It can be hard to distinguish sometimes. Lovey poem. 🙂