We let the seasons take their toll
Dead leaves have filled the yard.
Drifting slowly, crunching softly,
our once green graveyard full.
It’s true in other seasons too,
Spring has it’s pollen, long grass in summer
and winter’s blueish hue.
There are those who fight the signs,
who rake the leaves, wash everything,
and mow so many times.
It would mean much work to do,
to not see the seasons change,
to not see dead things all around,
and, maybe, not feel blue.
remnants of a homeland 