Sitting, swinging in the chilled air
gazing at trees
standing tall and proud til the end.
Transient arms falling,
waiting to be dissolved into the earth,
like the decay of youth,
preparing for hard times ahead.
The leaves have turned,
now showing yellows, reds, oranges, browns,
a grasping few still hanging on
to their greenest livelihoods.
Browns, falling dreams,
like a light snow,
twirling like tiny propellers
through the air.
The sound as they hit the earth,
a soft rustling
gentler than spring rain,
lazily drifting off to slumber.
A lone propeller
caught in a spider's web
dances one last dance
before adjoining its fate.
Moody clouds, mixed gray and white,
keeping warmth hidden,
leaving gloomy haze
upon all.
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