Revised Poem

 The Poems Of Humans

The poems of humans are filled with leaves;

many times illuming green,

fluttering prettily in a breeze,

a view down to lovers

on a bench.

But mostly they're on the late-autumn ground,

or blowing down a street

rife with gusts of storm—

gold and earthen without scorn,

returning to where they came—

the metaphor that we are them,

coming and going through the ages,

season upon season—

telling us the light is changing once again,

and that behind everything is a cold,

cold enough to make ice crack—

yet still, in tiny spaces,

warm enough

to let a kiss burn.