The playful leaves dance across the streets
organized by the rising winds.
No two take the same steps
before their final rest.
No two touch or dance the same
nor give a whit about the others.
Beautiful dancers, all, but no love,
no caring…just mindless bumping
As each dances to the end of time—
their time—from bud to mulch,
From unfeeling life to unfelt death.
Sad, sad to live and not know life…
So, pity the we, who, like the tree,
just stand and watch the dance.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.