Crushed Gold


Last year’s leaves, like crushed gold

Lie sprinkled on the crisp grass.

The celebration’s over,

Just the fading tinsel remains.

The gnarled branches

stand stark, once again,

In their winter nudity,

Grateful for the warmth from the distant sun.

The bell begins to toll, as if from another time,

The Night Watch? A stranded cow?

The temple or a warning siren?

Just a signal to wanderers to evacuate.

To go back where?

What am I supposed to do?

And, when will I know?

Questions thrown into this dappled emptiness.



Add yours →

  1. The eternal questions; they keep us searching — until all becomes clear…..

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