Fall

A poem about leaves... COOL.

The ominous oak tree in your neighbor's backyard is in the process of change.

The fresh, naive leaves sway quietly in the frigid breeze, appearing chilled.
The shake with each burst of wind,
that brushes through the limb's of their home.

With each day passing in autumn, they darken.
Deep, muddy shades of earth; rustic forms of orange; russet obscurities; sunset-colored yellows.

They slowly drift, one by one, to the frost-bitten ground.
The brave cling desperately to their branches,
unwilling to relinquish their hold.

The toughest make it to the edge of winter,
quivering with each breath of wind that flows past and through them.

They watch as their siblings are raked, thrown unceremoniously into bags,
and carted off to desolation.

The strongest fall, eventually.
Swaying to and fro in the air before a graceful landing.

In the dead of winter, the arms stand bare.
Awaiting the return of spring, of glory.