Of Me

The stories written have been read

By those meant to receive them

The words I’ve shared have landed

On the ears that need to hear them

As this season of my life draws closed

I gather the fallen leaves 

Rich with color and autumn hues

They are a reminder of me

I gather them between my fingers 

Crumbled pieces escape my grasp

A cool breeze swirls and their gone 

This finite existence isn’t made to last

Remember me, I whisper 

Hoping I’ve left some mark

The only thing I ever wanted

To have used what I was given for good

The remaining leaves I slip between the pages of my book

Closed and shelved 

A new series begins

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