Almost Autumn

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)