The last of the crimson maple leaves.
Falls into the winds of autumn.
Bare and skeleton fingers from the trees
reach out to the coming clouds of winter.

Awaiting its down feathered coats
of purity and pristine snow.
On the branch a single decoration
Of the coming festive season.
A snow white dove that sits alone
Deciding not to fly to warm
Southern climes.

But perhaps to await the return
of its missing feathered mate.
In a final act of lifelong devotion.
That teaches the world a lesson.

I too feel the melancholy
of the rapidly changing seasons.
Tired of its continual flow
from spring to summer
and autumn to winter.
Mimicking my own hearts
fragile mortality.