By Lisa Huddleston
Where have all the fall flowers gone,
Where are the mounds of oranges and reds,
The musty wet piles that covered our heads,
From which we erupted then remade our beds,
Where are the colors today?
I used to say that fall showed us how beautiful dying could be,
But now I fear I’m wrong.
This year the leaves drop without color,
Ashy gray skirts lie around empty trunks,
No beauty to the dying,
Just ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Where have all the flowers gone?