Autumn

The world has played a joke on us.
She has produced a change
That we knew was coming all along.
Autumn is a soft but pungent breath.

A cold breath, it's marked,
As it strips the trees,
And lays them to sleep on the walk.
But we know those breathing lungs
Are merciful, as it puts the
Earth asleep in a fold of color,
and does not make grey
Without first making vivid.

The year is resigned with a beautiful downfall.
And for a time everything will ferment
As if caught in a thought before action,
And we will pause, touch the finality
Of that cold breath.

But now is autumn, the precursor.
Now is shown the brilliant death
Of last year-
Leaves fall in glory and bare their trees,
Just as wordy pages may loft away
From its book.

We've worn these days
And here the story will end.
But the trees of our lives
And the books of our souls
Will not cease to bear leaves again.