Cascade

All that is read becomes the soil of the tree.

It's leaves whisper verses as in the breeze they chime gently,

falling one after the other, an army of papery autumn

to decorate the heath. Night will fall upon barren field

where crop does not dare interrupt the solemn procession.

From her weeping vigil the moon bears witness

to the stripping of yesterday and the casting of aspiration

to the grave of spent ambitions.