Look at the leaves,
As they fall from the trees.
Red, yellow, brown, and golden
An array of colors,
As they fall swiftly to the ground.
But the viewer does not hear their sound.
The leaves are trampled,
By the foot of man,
As we tread on the land.
That crispy crackling sound of destruction,
As the wind wisp swiftly by.
Oh if we could only feel,
As our head is pointed toward the sky.
The season is changing from day to day.
But we are not astute,
We must find our way.
For the leaves have been brushed
and pushed aside,
And we have lost the universal prize.