Fallen

Foliage fingerprints.

Prism mums,

Oft sunlight glints.

And dying things.

 

Flow’rs huddle low,

‘Neathe  coming cold.

Day dies young

With setting sun.

And dying things.

 

Bug’s knees creak,

Old, aging, weak.

Bedtime’s early,

Heads soft and curly.

Just sleepy things…