The Trees Weep Leaves

The trees weep leaves
In mourning for the passing season.
Yellowing pages from their summer scrapbook
gather at their feet like memories

And scatter before the wind.

Like the spring petals, born to die
But in that dying, giving birth
To something new, something beautiful
That cannot be without that willingness
To release what was, and grasp what can be.

The First Leaves of Autumn

I went for a walk in the woods today. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and I was glad to be out. It was a little cool, and the air tasted of autumn. As I walked, yellow leaves were falling here and there around me, and starting to gather by fences and at the feet of the trees. The grass has lost its sparkling green, and is starting to turn to brown. The year is drawing to a close.

But all is not dying. On the contrary! The seed pods are full and ripe, bursting with the promise of next summer's flowers. Berries and wild grapes are glowing in the bushes, and the trees seem to tremble in anticipation of the glory that is to come. There are still a few wildflowers, and squirrels are busily gathering and storing away whatever they can find. The air is full of birds, as this year's young, now full grown, prepare for their first winter, or their first migration. They too carry the promise of the future.

The leaves of autumn fall like the pages of a book being turned. Slowly at first, but soon falling thick and fast, we cannot stop it or slow it down. We cannot go back to the soft warm days of summer, but neither can we skip ahead to the bright bite of winter's cold. We can only embrace this one day, today, and allow tomorrow to be tomorrow. Each day is a gift, each dawn is a promise. Carpe diem.

Old leaves lie ignored
Frozen in a small puddle
A book none have read.