Every Dying Color Lays In The Street Poem by Achim Wollscheid

Fall is damned!
Every leaf of every tree sheds
as the balding of a man's head.
The pigments are beautiful,
but they're trampled on the ground:
the oranges, yellows, reds and browns!
My eyes find the most horrendous thing;
children plummet into the heaps
that I submissively raked up yesterday.
Each day in Fall I wake from a torpid nature.
It pains my limping limbs;
the eyesore of many gardening tools.
Why can it not be the time of fresh new ways?
When the weather is warm and replenishing
like the admirable season, Spring.
Always, around this time, I shudder in frustration
when I look outside and the streets are in ruins.