December 97
Autumn leaves lie broken,
stranded from life
at the base of the redwood, scattered.
Like the wasted dreams
of my youthful fantasy,
they, thin-veined and fragile,
crumble under foot
and are crushed into dust.
(From whence I came, so I return)
Brilliant once in a resplendant tapestry of
reds,
browns,
and yellows,
they now hit maturity
with spiteful invectives
and regretful sighs
over what has become past;
no less splendid now in their demise.
Snow dusts the corpses
of those once green dreams,
blanketing all fruitless sighs
for lost youth and sweet ambitions
that never now will come true.
Sing, sweet youth,
while dark-visaged Death doth creep
around tragic corners and uncertain mishaps
until Autumn returns once again
to claim those whose time
is to fall.
© Tara Tambollio
Scraps