People’s feet scurry like mice,

as they make their way to work or school.

 

Their various bags hang astray,

and their moods are slowly dwindling.

 

Grumbled words escape their lips,

and they scowl at the cold.

 

I stare and question their dismay,

for the leaves’ smell is sweet.

 

The brisk air chills my skin,

and small bumps arise on my arms.

 

I sigh gently into the air,

and a cloud of tiny droplets forms in front of me.

 

The leaves crunch carefully beneath my toes,

my shoe lifts, and the pieces are swept away.

 

The mountains are pinned beneath the horizon,

each one painted as if by Titian’s brush.

 

My cheeks blush from the cold,

as I push a strand of hair from my eyes.

 

I stand in the crowd of hurried people.

My hands lay still and I breathe calmly.

 

Others push by in shuffled quickness,

because they want to be the first to warmth.

 

Others view Fall as death,

but I see it as the beginning of rebirth.

 

I imagine a dead leaf,

as it unfurls within my hand.

 

It’s colors bleed back through its veins,

and its beauty is reborn in a new form.