Yellow leaves of the sand pear,
ruby of the blackhaw,
and still hanging the fiery crabs.
A soft breeze grabs me, massaging the soul
with the crisp air and a display so fair,
giving warmth to the fall.
Gazing the ground my eyes rise,
gently following the contour of the rolling hills
then noticing—
the chestnut copse reaching to the sky.
She steers my gaze upward
into the canopy of an old tree—
blighted but somehow
still delighted by the refreshing winds,
strong at it’s roots, but weak above,
knowing that one of these seasons
I, too, will fall in,
into the ground,
adding to the sound,
Of the brave ‘simmon
hitting ground.
