Leaves, brown and crisp,
Float to the earth,
Edging a busy street,
Crushed under hurrying feet.
Our Father knows our frame and remembers that we are dust.
Life, brief and full,
Slips toward the past tense,
Leaving us to regret
Youthful ambitions left unmet.
Our Father knows our frame and remembers that we are dust
So beautiful!
Thanks. Eb thought it was a little sad.