Might I decay, in russet brilliance, just like you, leaf.
Fall adopts her prettiest dress
when the singing thrush appears.
With age might an empathy of improved humanity
suffuse my being and radiate, outward,
like the color of a maple tree.
The sap of youth cooks to the sugar of measured thinking.
The leaf, with its final dissolution,
breathes into the earth’s garden newfound joy
and rebirth.
Children play in mounds of yellow and red
whispers that are only the laughter
of those jolly souls
who have gone before.
Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent writing appears in The Basilisk Tree, Backwards Trajectory, Black Poppy Review, ZiN Daily, Cosmic Daffodil, Remington Review, ActiveMuse, The Closed Eye Open, Magma, Spinozablue, and more journals.