The fall

the cold rushed in
in such a fever
the leaves clung to summer’s hot breath
Falling, green, onto the
Crisp. Virgin. Great white.

While others, clinging onto all they knew
shouldered the heavy cold,
So cold. So heavy. It had become a
Solid Mass.

even the trees bowed to frozen majesty
heavy green leaves, clinging
Clinging
Refusing the fall but touching,
Touching the ground, tenderly scraping.

The birds, bereft of nest and song.
The young, untested wings,
Too Green for their
Great flight south.