There was a time I thought the leaves would never fall, never turn their backs to their true color. But oh how pleasant the dying looks; red, orange and gold, a ceremonial dressing for the doomed, hanging loosely, helpless to the gravity of something bigger then itself.
A crisp chill wind blows south, my coat pulled tight for comfort; only my own arms are left now. Drifting past me, just above the ground, refuse tumbles by without a will, destined to end up wherever. Smells of food blow through my hair, seeking an appetite long lost in some deep dark place well beyond the reach of such trivial things.
Past the sunlight, through the rainbowed mist of a jubilant fountain, I see two young lovers huddled together beneath the maple, beneath an October sky, pointing upwards to the heavens or the trees. Maybe they see an angel, not me, I only see the bare branches limned against a darkening sky.
among the grass
between the blades