Leaves Of November Poem by Barbara M. Thomas

How you glide over the matted, frostbitten grass
Performing the last dance
A ritual before death
An unseen choreographer guiding your every movement
The wind, your lover, picking you up
Tossing you around in the air
Whirling you about as if on some great dance floor

Sometimes you dance in groups
Thousands of you in constant motion
Moving to your lover's music in no particular direction
Other times you dance alone, gliding through the air
Touching down here and there
Waiting, hoping for your lover's touch

The costumes are beautiful shades of gold and red
Autumn's finest
With only an occasional brown
The shade of impending death

Soon you will be lifeless
Forgotten by your lover
A thing of the past, to dance no more