That time of the year when dried out leaves bid farewell
To branches that hold them dear.
Brown, dry, fallen.
On the ground, crisp as freshly washed linen,
Taking the hue of the earthen soil beneath.
At times, on grass.
On lush greens moistened with cold dew drops at dawn.
Autumn.
A time of dying, a prerequisite to breathing.
To breathe, to give way to life anew,
When branches give birth to sprigs of green
And pink
And yellow
And purple.
Flowers.
Tiny buds making its way out of their home,
Out of seeds, out to where the breeze blows
At the gentlest sign of spring.
But, spring.
Doesn't come until after the cold.
Not until a young, brown leaf gets crushed
On the ground, covered with thin, gray, dusty ice.
Not until the frozen silence conquers the heavy rustling
And falling
And dying.
And dying.
Autumn. #
