Last Words

I heard the scuffled clack

Of crumpled paper

Hitting the wood,

Then another and another;

The scuttling chase

Of discarded pages

From the withered hand of a dying poet.

The leaves gathered

On the floor

Near the door

Of the old place,

Yellowed with time’s paintbrush.

Their dry voices

Rasped a final word,

Tumbled by a drafty wind

Before coming to rest

quietly

By the grave beneath the sleeping tree.

By Heather J. Willis, author