The Turtles

                                       All the turtles turned on their backs.
                                       Hollow golden shells with their feet attached;
                                       Their little tails and heads perfectly matched,
                                       Swimming toward ground to relax,
                                       To find themselves mulched or in sacks.

                                       Sacked or mulched the turtles arrive
                                       Back at the homeland from which they were born.
                                       Falling in the cycle of candy corn,
                                       Floating home so nature can thrive;
                                       Dead- the turtles are not alive.

                                       The fall of the brittle old shell,
                                       Racked and tilled, turned over into the dirt,
                                       Buried under the fall and all the hurt.
                                       Now to dwell with the molding smell,
                                       Dying so others’ pride can swell.

                                       Like the turtles seasons before,
                                       Swept away with no say over their lives,
                                       The tumbling fall no turtle survives.
                                       The tree turns its trunk to ignore
                                       The turtle that is now a bore.

                                       One such turtle fell from the tree
                                       After trying to hold to life too long.
                                       As he floated, it heard the garden’s song.
                                       Through the lies, it heard the decree
                                       And knew it was nothing but debris.