The Consuming Flames of Autumn
How she loathed the leaves of autumn.You know, those garish, papery remnants
of warmer days, fluttering now, crackling
in the angry thrusts of pitiless gusts;
the leaves prepare to leave.
Ah but the foliage! the tourist protests.
Shades of rusty yellow, bon-fire golds,
and reds that seem to defy the color-wheel;
What's not to love? they ask.
No, she says, they are dying.
The pulsing sap has run dry,
nothing left to do but fall--
it's fall and they must leave
and I'm reminded, so must I.
But they'll return in the spring,
they say, all the green you can bear,
winter then only a forgotten intrusion.
Metamorphosis is inevitable and good
say the wisest of the wise:
I change, you change.
we too have seasons.
Poetry by William Hughes
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Written on 2025-07-19 at 17:38
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