Falling Leaves

The leaves whisper in the trees, They crackle like fire underfoot, They spoil and rot, The color of their skin turns, As they die in a brilliance of color, Their crumpled bodies lay sprawled across the grass, Waiting to be collected and put in body bags, Or cremated in burning barrels or firepits, The death of a season, They take away the green of the grass, They leave the trees bare, Their spindly skeletons stand rigid, Having lost their sway along with their leaves, The leaves take away the flowers, The birds begin to dwindle down, Their trilling growing quieter and quieter, They consider leaving for warmer air to fill with their song, The leaves take so much, But give our world a flash of color in return, Shiny, eye-catching gold, Like jewelry dressing the trees, And fiery orange and red, Bursting with the color of flames, A wonderful gift I sometimes take for granted.