A Change of Color

The leaves are brilliant.
Still full and lush.
The rains and winds have not yet torn them
from the limbs and tossed them to the ground
like victims of war.
They linger late in the season of transition,
fragile beauty.

It is almost frost season. Not quite but almost.
Soon the limbs will be barren
and you will be able to see the landscapes beyond,
places hidden three seasons of the year,
far away farms. Mountain peaks.
Outcropping rocks with grey green lichen.

It is not the season of death that is upon us.
It is the season of new worlds,
a change of color, nothing more,
the cold preparing us for spring
no less than the roots under the earth,
resting for now, in need of restoration
before rebirth.

About this poem.

Sometimes, it’s OK to simply wait for change to show itself. It will, sure as the seasons.

Tom