Poetry: Death of The Season

image2-1Death 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.

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.
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2 Responses to Poetry: Death of The Season

  1. Rigel Ordinario says:

    Death or the onset of slumber? It can be hard to distinguish sometimes. Lovey poem. 🙂

Thanks for the read.

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