it's september now;
the mornings are cooler
than just a few days ago,
the trees are curling their leaves
upwards, and turning yellow towards life.
one last kiss good-bye,
what choice do they have?
i remember when my roots were pulled,
it's been cold since then and
september had just begun,
it's never about choices.
the wind is whispering a song,
like a mother's lullaby,
and the leaves are falling like evening
across the sky, red-orange bliss
towards something they can't see happening,
yet it always rains beyond the blue
and i still taste it in that last kiss,
cold as the days that are soon to come,
soon the leaves will drop towards the ground
pile up and become nothing but a memory
several feet under winter's march
then decompose into nothing
more than stale air,
yet, what choice do they have?
(my mother died Sept first, many years ago and this time of year triggers much emotion)