That cloudy September day cried,
and streaks of tears ran down
the window pane, rivulets

gripping onto the last vestiges
of summer. The once glorious trees,
arrayed with an emerald crown,

shrivel up. The gems turn ruby,
and in their confused identity rust away,
remnants falling to the ground.

The whole melodrama can be seen
from my window, the window that is the
eye from which the poet sees the soul

of the world. All is vanity, a poet once said,
and even these words, once penned,
will decay and be mere dust in the wind.

Yet still poets sit behind glass eyes
and write, surely as the seasons change
and the earth continues on its tilted axis.

Five thousand words could not hope to explain
the glories found in a single emerald
or a leaf whose life has ended, whose last hope

is to be found by a child crunching leaves
and rediscovering fall after three seasons made
it a distant memory. All is vanity, so I put down

the pen, content with a few words, entering
the world that I know is more than vanity,
and with an armful of leaves I throw dust in the wind.


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