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Fall greets the earth as summer slips quietly away.
The seasons are changing, as the leaves shift in color from Emerald Green and Chartreuse
to Russet Browns, antiques of their once fine grandeur,
though still splendid in their beauty.
The color of the leaves, as if painted by hand, so individually crafted.
With swirls of Orange and Coquelicot, the leaves fall as if they are gracing the earth the way a painter graces their canvas.
The air grows cooler, giving way to new glory, breezy winds that whisper, carrying undertones of what is to come.
The lakes feel the chill, and the creatures understand that the changing winds will soon give way to a glacial paradise, an icy oasis.
The changing of the season from summer to fall is one I look forward to,
for there is something in the change that brings back fond memories.
Days filled with love, days spent in front of the fire, snugly wrapped, watching the flames twirl and dance.
Days filled with wonder, days in which my life seemed to move along to a soft and gentle melody that only I could hear.
Days when I held to life, and it met me with grace.
Still now, when I feel the fall winds gently embracing my skin,
I feel the same wonder, and that old melody carries me away again.

-Rhia Clay
I know it's not the season for fall poetry. However, I wanted to share a piece I wrote a while back that brings back fond memories. I hope you'll enjoy it too. :)
Bekah Halle May 11
Repeatedly, I have gathered you.
And yet you still fall, **** leaves, you're like a floating fault!
Killing me softly with your incessant grin;
Endlessly gloating: "I've got more where they've come from!"
Declares MN as she blows her windy, willowy waves of air through the trees; nice breeze but...






"Come on, give me a break!" I shriek.
Looking back over old poems, I noticed one: "Afternoons on the back deck (https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4862646/afternoons-on-the-back-deck/) " and thought, "No time for whiskey when I have to rake!" Ha! MN = Mother Nature
Away from where you feel
Headed towards the destination
Only ever wanted the ending
Now you wish for the beginning
Sanama Mar 29
Are we not like leaves?
We grow, we watch, we change,
Aging beside those we cherish,
Until, at last, we fall—
And new ones take our place.
Are we not like leaves? We grow as they do, aging in ways that become more noticeable over time. We share our days with others in our season until, eventually, we fall. And then, a new generation takes our place.
Sophie Chen Mar 25
Through monochrome skies
I watch the
stippled
Leaves of auburn
rot.
as time turns back
to that one autumn,
We parted through cooling ashes
leaving my heart's blood
to fall as red leaves
I remember reading a poem that had this beautiful scene, watching red leaves fall from a tree, like your heart was bleeding.
Room temp black tea,
Jingling house keys,
Little whispers of morning trees.

Quaint feeling of tranquility,
Walking among the preserved fall leaves,
A small nip of chill in the breeze.
There's something about a Monday morning.
Sapling, a fragile reaching,
towards the sun's insistent call.
Woods cradle the tender green,
leaves unfurling, a soft whisper
against the rough bark.
Greenery spills, a vibrant stain
on the earth's dark canvas.
Roots, tenacious fingers, grasping,
anchoring, a silent conversation
with the soil's hidden depths.

Branches, arms outstretched,
a latticework of shadows,
sheltering secrets whispered
on the wind's breath.
Timber, the heartwood's strength,
a testament to time endured,
seasons weathered, storms survived.
Forest, a living tapestry, woven
with rustling leaves and silent growth.

Leaves, a symphony of color,
shifting with the sun's slow dance.
Gold, crimson, a fiery farewell
before the quiet sleep of winter.
The cycle continues, a rhythm
unfolding, a timeless ballet
of life and death.

Sunlight, a golden cascade,
filtering through the canopy's embrace.
Each ray a promise, a whisper
of renewal, of warmth, of life.
Roots, a tangled embrace,
drawing strength from the earth's core.
Branches, reaching for the heavens,
a silent plea, a quiet prayer.

Twilight descends, a hush falls,
the tree stands sentinel, guardian
of whispered dreams, secrets held
in the rustling leaves.
Forest's heart beats softly,
a symphony of whispers, a chorus
of life, a testament to time.
Timber's strength, roots' embrace,
leaves' gentle sigh, a story told
in the language of the woods.
From my lesson in Picadilly's Write the Poem
Tristan Corey Feb 13
A linden sways in Berlin’s air,
soft and still, yet drifting where
it once had danced in golden light,
now falling, fading out of sight.

Once it stood, so strong, so free,
born of spring’s sweet memory.
Once it warmed in summer’s grace,
now autumn’s breath has torn its place.

Yet long before the cold winds came,
I was the storm, I bore the rain.
I dimmed your light, I broke your soul,
never knowing the weight, the toll.

Your roots, once deep, began to fade,
drowned in shadows my heart had made.
And though I never wished you pain,
my weight was yours to bear in vain.

And as our leaves drift to the ground,
we stand as ghosts, lost, unfound.
For you, my light, my heart, my stay,
are gone—and all is cold and grey.

Love once held me close to you,
like roots that held my world in view.
But without you, what remains?
An empty vessel, a soul in chains.

So now I call the wind once more,
to bear us where no sorrows soar,
to dance again, then set us free,
a fleeting breath upon the sea.

Through restless tides and whispering trees,
it sings of loss, it hums of peace,
it stirs my soul, it beats my mind,
then leaves no trace of us behind.

Yet know this truth, to most unknown—
leaves will never die alone.
They follow where the love is blown.
the scent of love has detached from my heart
a fallen leaf from a tree no longer bearing ripe fruit –
and I rest watching the other’s love blossom
off into the distance

and

an old lover’s kiss carries the scent of love
by the wind in between two lips – a secret kept
between the two… forever, lest they meet again

oh, what a great pain it would be.
Vitæ Nov 2024
Draped in golden perspire
from branch to bough,
Autumn lingers at the rim
of morning's hazy brew.
As leaves release their hold
in orange streams,
these fears and dreams too
fall with a patient certainty,
along with what was and
what could have been,
rousing not the sky or earth
but a fire within me.
“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face."

― The Autumnal, John Donne
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