What Matters Poem by Betty Bleen

Early September and the leaves are falling,
they crunch beneath my feet
as I walk the dogs through the park.

Scattered on the lawn
they've become brown and brittle,
fragile as my heart.
Soon they will be trampled
and forgotten,
as if their existence didn't matter,
as if life never coursed through their veins,
with no thought as to how they played
in the scheme of things.
How easily we forget,
little things that once mattered,
hearts, leaves...
it's all the same thing.