The End of Autumn
might be confused by some with the beginning
of winter as if the two were seamless, intertwined
like identical twins who when young
were dressed exactly alike by their parents.
But look at them now—they know they are separate
enough to listen so closely, to feel the breath
of each other before daring to engage
in one of their own. The leaves know too.
They mourn over how they were beautiful
once, causing gasps of delight from suitors.
But now their beauty is merely a memory,
a nuisance really. They hang around
underfoot like unruly children who misbehave
whenever the adults are not around to watch.
They end up dragged inside to rebuke those of us
too cowardly to venture outdoors and take on
tantrum winds. Like the leaves, we remain
watching our lives suspended between seasons,
hoping for a frigid moon to whisper our name
in the shadows, waiting for winded trees to bend
toward us, to push us forward, downward,
any direction, to give our lives at least some momentum.