Those days we grumbled about the heat a mere memory.
Soon we’ll grumble about the cold;
It’s just a matter of time.
We’ll watch the leaves turn
From deep greens to brilliant reds and golds
To dull crumbly browns.
Released from the daily duties of growing leaves, they go bunjee jumping without a bunjee cord
And end their lives raked in a pile
Frolicking with children.
The leaves never grumble.
It’s not much of a retirement plan
But I guess there are worse ways to go.