The leaves fell softly like dandelions floating in the wind;
The crinkling sound under my feet unmatched except by the cackling of flame.
Wintery winds gusted and pushed me back into remission
As the warmth left my fingertips – as the frigid air
Crept in, suddenly the addiction fleeted like a bad memory
You blot out. All the brown, tinged orange – then violet sky with the tiny
Mechanized birds departing for home . . .
It seems all the troubles are flying east, too.
The budding flowers of spring began, and, with them a new found Hope
As the spectators, the diminutive beings, stare in content bewilderment
With glossy eyes and a half smile;
They realize subconsciously that
Even in the seemingly empty spaces, the good still has time to grow