Another Autumn Poem?

So sunlight weakens, stirs our lawn

in partial shade embracing leaves,

like coracles afloat at sea.

These scattered craft of summer past

have fled a grieving cherry tree.

And on the ground, still wet with dew

a compass holds no earthly use,

they lie prostrate in patient wait

in hues of red, in random spread

uncertain of their pending fate.

Will they become an autumn mulch,

or feed the burner, turn to smoke,

send whispy trails high in the sky?

With all their glory days surpassed,

predestined too, like us they die.