soft hazel hair dancing in the wind
time doesn't exist; never-ending bliss
flowers bending, hypnotic rhythm
with no urge to resist you completely submiss.
this is heaven.
this is it.
destination reached.
you look up to the sky; as you close your eyes
you feel the warmth
of the sun
kissing your face.
you finally found your place.

Some of the leaves have turned
To a perfect, Popsicle orange
While some are drenched in purple
Like a sad cleric that mourns
The hills are dressed in brightest yellow
Like flashbulbs going off
And varied reddish lipstick shades
Some fiery, and some soft
Coppers I see, like an old tea kettle
Or suntans on the beach
And mauve, ah sensuous mauve,
Like the skin of a ripened peach

I'm standing where I admired the leaves
As a child way back when
The colors, I think, must still be the same,
But they look different now than they did then