Fine feathered figs lay stationary on toppled topiaries,
I hide the predators there;
Within tasteless whispers,
Tiptoe, topless tantrums,
Cradling maple trees,
Leaves that dance around the autumn tales.
Wistful whimpers down the rabbit hole,
Alice has long since vanished from the harvest battalion,
Can't the soldier drink the nectar?
Swiftly, sipping, slurping bottles down.
Am I mad as a hatter or high as a caterpillar?
The cat sleeps, never, but invisible plights,
Consume, fully the precious mushrooms.
I wake to find my petals decayed under the first bed of frost.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
