I run along the tops of trees
branches catch then drop me to my knees.
And I fall like leaves.
Spiraling down in Autumn's breeze.

I'm under attack in my own canopy.
What do I lack to keep scars from me?
I've fallen from heights I've grown used to.
I swallow my pride to avoid my doom.

I'm not like the pines; no longevity.
Like leaves I pile on the severity.
No levity is brought to my shaking knees.
When did Autumn become heavy?