Mirror
The leaves which had turned
To flame have been burned
Away in the ire
Of the wind's cold fire
Impatient to sweep
In a change of scene
Harvest will not wait
The trees go to sleep
Knowing that the lean
Time of year has come
If only for some
While others grow fat
With secrets to keep
As the hour grows late
I think about that
Feeling like a tree
In a change of scene
Swept impatiently
Something which has been
A season before
A once present date
But not anymore
It is not for now
Yet will be again
As time will allow
To bloom when the rain
Wakens everything
At the turn of spring
No doubt no debate
Darkness encroaches
Winter approaches
And as it begins
Becoming clearer
Mortality grins
Back from the mirror
+Steven Curtis Lance
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