Time brings to air the fall of leaves
as poets write and poets die.
Where words are written of one’s soul
on feathered wings as eagles fly.

Words of soft verse, of prose and rhyme
Ever so light or brazen, bold.
Thoughts that lie quiet among the leaves
waiting to be touched, held and told.

Light the whispers of frosted breath
upon the pane of once clear glass.
As shimmers shake the shadows nigh
and lines do come as time does pass.

Softly the flake now falls to earth
as words are made in scrawl of snow
Becoming a flow of waters pure
as poets quill in words that flow.

A stream carries to rolling sea
passages written 'neath blue sky.
Thoughts and visions so aptly read
as poets live....as poets die...