The Dance

I AM neither Emperor nor king

And yet the leaves dance for me

As the petulant Autumn winds sing

Their seasonal mantras of glee.

My senses awaken and shift

Amid nature’s disassembled ranks;

From whom do I receive this gift?

To whom must I offer thanks?

Round and round they fly,

Their little stalks tapping-out

A sweet rhythm in the mind’s eye:

Yet their fate was never in doubt.

The mighty tree has shed its crown,

But the leaves don’t seem to care;

Their final waltz in brittled brown

Halted by the parting air.

© Troy Southgate, 13.X.25