Cold fall leaves, so carelessly tossed,
lay brown and withered by morning’s frost.
Discarded scraps of natures poetry
so carelessly tossed. Cold fall leaves
in winters wind, ending natures grace.
The wagon waits for hibernal face
to lay siege upon this land again,
ending natures grace in winters wind.
And every truth I’ve known, all that I believe
is in the red wagon, covered now with leaves.
Where once behind tiny legs there used to roam
all that I believe and every truth I’ve known.
For I am but a man, so little do I know
of wagons and winter and children when they’re grown.
To my sorrow I may never understand.
So little do I know, for I am but a man.