Let Me Die In Autumn Poem by Saint Eule

When I die let it be in Autumn,
let them sweep the leaves from that chosen spot.
The spruce will still be green in glory,
The maple will shower me with colors on the lot.

The crows will shout in the nearby field,
The amber grasses will lay a carpet of gold.
Let the Psalms be read and a poem,
Let the poem be a Kilmer favorite story told.

If the clouds are passing over head,
They may be just a vapor carriage that awaits.
The Autumn has a magical power,
As to change the nature of living things fates.

For the color, for the cool breeze,
Let me die in the Autumn- please.