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.