Leaves shiver
like flickering candles
before the falling.
Autumn gives no mercy
for verdant clothed trees;
soon naked, wrinkled.
Heart shaped woodland petals
lay on ground, lolling.
I gather the resplendent, less worn,
for pressing in my pages.
Once flattened,
I examine various veins
spreading in all directions.
And marvel at the different hues,
crimson, brown, yellow;
a touch of green.
Green, still alive,
amid colorful death
surrounding one live complexion.
I brush them with a thin shellac
for preservation to mark yellowed pages.
Each time I open my book to read
beneath the lamplight’s orange glow,
I leave a leaf on the table,
then retrieve it for study
while the page waits.
Pondering nature,
change of face each season,
Then return to Thoreau
and his beginning passage,
“Pray to earth does this sweet cold belong,..."



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