Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,
brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,
crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,
scent of mortality pervading air.
One wonders about vaunted ambition
as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves
while forebodings of winter shiver bones.
Just what is it that we wish to achieve?
All will pass, even renewal of leaves.
Yet many crave headline folly of news,
or the illusion of media fame.
It’s best to live kindly in the moment
where love conjures happy contentment,
and like mushrooms create your own small rain
by hefting your own spores of hope in air!