Crisp brown that crackles underfoot.
If it rains in the coming days
they’ll become soggy, squelching,
soon turning to mulch.
They cover the grass below,
that too, will turn to mud,
getting stuck to the underside
of unsuspecting shoes.
From a luscious green,
they fade, turning sickly.
Matching the paling skin
of someone who’s lost sight
of their path.
They follow the lost traveller’s example,
turning every which way,
following the breeze until it shifts.
Unable to decide on a direction,
caught in limbo,
caged by the biting wind,
anxious, turning a vibrant red
that sets the whole forest alight.
Yet they’ll grow weary,
cease searching for the path,
succumbing to their frailty,
and merely wish to rest.
They’ll flutter to the ground,
laying their heads down
on a crisp bed that crackles underfoot.
