The Leaves of Autumn

A woodland vortex before me 

A solitary creature lays at the other end 

Miniscule, inconsequential, waiting 

A canopy overhead 

Outstretched arms holding 

The leaves of autumn 

Blackened, twisted corpses to either side

 Of the tapestry below 

Rustling softness of veined limbs 

Hands of tangerine, blood, and amber

That cover my steps in dry waves 

As I march to the figure 

Wood smoke wafts back towards me 

From the opposite end 

Carried on the breath undulating 

Through the hues on three sides 

And kicking up those expired claws below

The clock strikes still, frozen 

In the embrace of the imminent wintertide 

But not yet, not just yet 

Let the sentinels gaze upon my passing 

Then, they can reveal their skeletons 

After I am gone.