Fall

 

Fall

Fall slides by us in a quick progression

from the last rasp of the cicada

to the colors whose beauty lulls us into

hoping the coming winter might be tender and mild

The songs of the cicadas and katydids

are replaced by the whispering sliss, sliss, sliss

of leaves underfoot like a lullaby that prepares us

for the silent stillness of winter’s chill slumber

 

I watch from my window as the turning of leaves

moves as surely as the hands on a clock from

withering tulip tree and flaming dogwood to

golden hickory and finally to scarlet oak’s crescendo

 

There’s a sadness in these golden days

for those of us who feel the changing light

as a mantle that won’t be lifted until long after

the last withering beech leaf has finally let go

 

But underfoot in the leaf litter that remains

the promise of renewal lies wrapped in cocoons

nesting in a bed of rich decay that will

ensure that earth’s promise of spring is fulfilled

 

10-21-22