The brake

The leaves rolled before my feet
As if the floor might decide to leap
Each one a new blend with my path
Not pointing my way just blowing past
My feet protected from their soft crunch
No longer to flower yet still they bunch
I cannot carry them all with me
Or bring them back to a prescious life known
Just wait a year or two
For the kiss to foam
Then the wildflowers will leach from their shattered dome
And suck their nutrients from without, within
And not one will look up at the tree of their
kin
Yet eyes will glisten with rose and daffodil
After the winter takes its fill
As their mud scraped with machine and drain until
Whatever becomes of the precious hills