“These leaves, orange and dry” — a poem

I’ve turned the page on my calendar today.These leaves above have changed, just like all things do.The smooth, leathery kiss from the tree has turneda dull, dead, dry moon.My sunlight goes to bed before I do;it doesn’t care if I shiver in the dark.

Although,

These leaves below have turned too.Shimmering chartreuse into wine and gold,but I’ve only just broken my bread.The colors don’t wait for me either.I’ve become accustomed to this equinox.An array of a palette so warm,a polar opposite of the wind chill it brings.

Although,

These leaves of tangerine and brittle airhave come to welcome mewhether I like it or not.

Edited by Ever Cole | ecole@themaneater.comCopy edited by Kyla Pehr and Jacob Richey