The wise trees turning color.
leaves of hues of green
turn golden and crimson.
Faster day by day
almost hour by hour.

first, a last glow of magnificence.
Signifying the end of a life cycle
another ring in its trunk.

Even the Indian summer
belying the changing seasons
could not confuse them.

For as long as the earth has been
they know the season's.
Such knowledge it lives
in their deepest roots.
The very soil whispering
it's secrets to them.

Soon a rush to leave
the glorious branches.
The falling crimson rain
falls in torrents to the earth.

Free from their branches
the leaves float in freedoms delight.
Catching the cooler autumn breezes
and flying to see the world
for one last time.
Ffor one last season.

Children dance
in the rustling leafy beds.
Acorns and horse chestnuts
fall and seek a place to root.

squirrels build their  nest
taking the seeds to storage for
the harsh winter ahead.

Eventually the trees
are gray and bare.
Their skeleton fingers
pointing to a sad winter sky.
Patiently awaiting renewal
in a far off spring day.

As the first snows falls
I promise myself to be
as patient as the trees
A promise that
I break by lunchtime.