Autumn Leaves

I still hearken a little deep from the rolled out time the last song of cuckoo humming through the hot winds. The scents of last spring-flower still drift through my dried up nasal lanes. Today walking silently over the crackling autumn leaves I rue for the withered bed of roses that once paved my way towards a breathing heaven of verve. The parched earth and naked trees stand before me like fossils of the deceased last spring. The desiccated bed of my garden-pond it seems, has no tears to shed at her robbed off once brimming water wealth. Where are those bunnies and little squirrels that sprinted, rollicked and rocked over my grassy lawn? Where's grass? Where's lawn? Under the searing Sun where are smiles, glee, bliss and prank? The dead autumn leaves under my feet whispered in husky, crackling tones the secret of seasons: 'We're dead...interred we reach soon our mother roots' bed. We'll sprout again as leaves tender, sleek and charming... no death to us... no dearth for green-green wealth. Every autumn is followed by a new spring.