Harvested by the wind
they’ll fall upon the ground
and I’ll not be around
to rake them into piles.


Once attended by raking sounds
memory now holds them
and will ’til my last breath.


Though winter’s scourge
will be kept at bay
where I now spend my days
when they begin diminishing
I find nostalgia visiting
offering the sights and sounds
I cannot help but long for.

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