Falling Leaves Poem by James Smith

Shall we describe the falling leaves
As feathers floating in the autumn sun?
Or golden tissue that a craftsman weaves
Cut into snippets when the cloth is done?
Bright confetti from some nearby wedding?
Though wind born litter isn't quite the same
For nature scorns this careless shedding,
Our simple products a cause for shame.
Seeking the 'right words' is maybe wrong
We ignore the reason for the annual fall
The days grow short the nights grow long,
Trees must respond to the season's call.
So perhaps our leaves should rest undescribed
Our thin words to conjure them best proscribed.