Rain all night and all morning.
The bright yellow leaves in tears,
shaking on the branches,
sprawling on the ground,
carpeting everything–the lawn, the paths, the cars.
The season of leaves,
a beautiful death,
a colorful eulogy,
a spectacular funeral.
The slice of toasted bread
turns soggy quickly.
Rains pouring from
the broken corner of the gutter.
I say to myself I can’t believe that
leaves have a better life.
Born in the spring,
the promising new green,
fresh from the winter’s waning chill,
pretty in the soft breeze.
Thrive in the summer
in lush dark green.
When the fall comes,
they turn more attractive than ever.
The older they get, the more alluring.
In death, they are breathlessly beautiful.
For humans, the birth is a struggle,
growing up uneventful, middle-age so-so,
striving for an unreachable goal.
While every leaf is beautiful,
humans are mostly plain.
And old age is full of indignity
of bodily decline.
If not illnesses, fear of illnesses.
Life is unfair.
Nature favors leaves over humans.
Where can we submit our complaints?