The dew indiscriminately

wept for all things living and dead

on this early autumn morning.

Its cold droplets caressed the leaves

while lingering sap-starved leaf stems

clung precariously above

and each dying leaf shed teardrops

for and onto their fallen kind.

One by one they released their hold

falling silently, gracefully

in their final unique fashion:

Some swayed. Others pirouetted;

and many more, somersaulting

into their final resting place.

Sunbeams from an October star

spilt rippling puddles of warm light

on their multicolored remains

amid the vibrant wildflowers.
 

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. 
Albert Camus