Some strewn dry leaves wait on the roadside,
trampled mercilessly, struggling for survival,
A gust of wind sweeps them away,
As they ride on to a different land.
I pick them up,
stitch, spray n decorate,
And fix them in my drawing room vase,
they would no longer be trampled,
But their wistful eyes keep staring
the standing trees by the window pane
-- Death was better....
As another winter goes by.