The curtain lifts, with audience inattentive, leaves of scarlet, gold and rust.
Careless lovers kick their feet through the first scenes of trust.
A child interrupts an image of fancy to touch a beckoning branch,
while gusts caress the loving treetops, sparking whirlwinds of dance.
The writer sits with pen in hand to judge each minor flaw.
But in the act his view changes to humbleness and awe!
His part; to write a descriptive line with a creative hue.
Time stands still as the leaves, still falling, give him the perfect cue.
But what of you who listen now to yet another part?
Do you critique, stand aloof, or hear with open heart?
There is no lighter joy than to be on stage catching leaves as they fall,
but also sit in audience within the director’s call.