Souls come in splashes of color, intermingling,
from pale spring pastel to chartreuse, opening
a gaudy bloom in a hot summer garden,
or tossing a pigment-saturated leaf in autumn.
One fades, a soft breeze that waved flower tops
departs in murmurs of leaves, a whisper lost.
Another dies. All the flowers droop, leaves fall as one,
surrender to winter’s chill and the death of the sun,
as if each only stood upright or hung on to
witness the flash and brilliance of a single hue.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser
