He Who Wanders

People watch with wonder
As they fall
In tumbling droves. Their bodies,
Bold and red, litter
The frosted floor. And some say
It’s beauty. They tread
Across their corpses
And delight in the shatter
Of their spines. But their rosy hue

Dampens and decays
Till their blackened skin sickens
All who see. They pile the departed
In careless heaps, and everything becomes
Quiet. Empty. Dead.

Now they pray
For verdancy and life
In flourish. They worship
The green as the buds
Blossom, and cultivate
The earth to foster

The future. But in the end,
The cycle starts.
Leaves will fall,
And people will wonder.