The Skeleton Inside

I mock the leaves for crumbling
And aging is my penance.
I will snap from the tree of youth,
Though I fade not from ivy to amber.
I was once pink, now peach, then gray.
As if the spring of my age marches toward autumn,
I will rustle as I scoot along the pavement,
Just like the leaves I mock.

There is a lesson when the skeleton inside
Aches and wretches with every bend and jerk:
That the hardened veins of leaves outlast
The browned, ashing bits of skin attached.
I, too, will make a beautiful corpse.