Autumn Leaves
How will I know when autumn comes
The leaves are silent, the North wind sleeps
My garden weeps for the autumn leaves
They no longer play hide and go seek
Circling around the garden creek
Their rustling laughter is quiet forever
For the tree that stood proud and tall
A 100 years and a 100 feet as I recall
Uprooted and cut in a 100 pieces
Three days and many men
Sawed and hacked until it died
Quietly on a Sunday afternoon
And with it fell a dozen nests
The birds are flown
The squirrels fled
As the home they had known
Lay wounded and bled
They are gone; the big and the small
Squirrels and birds and leaves and all
And the tree that stood proud and tall
How? Oh how will I know when autumn comes?
Lament of the Little Mailbox
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My color fades
My joints rust
I'm no longer the one
That people trust
No longer a friend; no, not I
Perhaps it's time for me to die
I remember a time
Young men confided
Professed their love
And women chided
A mother waited; her face alight
Her soldier son; before her sight
His letters were few
His mother knew
She felt the page
Gnarled with age
News of girls and baby boys
Births and birthdays
Sorrows and joys
A million letters
A Christmas gift
Of promises of love
And blessings above
Sigh! On my!
Such a darling was I
And once a favorite hero too
My paint was red and sometimes blue
Alas! Alas!
The warmth is gone
Like a warm and fleeting summer breeze
I'm cold and old and often freeze
My belly is empty
Where once there was plenty
No poetic words
That ebb and flow
No warmth no glow
I’m tired and slow
Only flyers and bills
And winter chills
Now all I have
Are a thousand story
From days of youth and glorious glory
My color peels
My joints rust
I' covered in dust
I'm no longer the one
That people trust
No longer a friend
No, not I
Perhaps it's time for me to die.