Early autumn,
And the shriveled leaves fell
Into many great lakes of
Yellow and red.
Some in groups and some
Alone.
The chrysanthemums were dying and with a soft
Whisper of wind,
The last rose
Lost one more petal.
Hidden
Behind a white curtain,
Dirtied by years of little fingers,
She sat,
Withered,
Wondering,
Waiting.
