The rain-soaked leaves fall from the trees
to coat the asphalt avenues,
they cling to shingles on the roofs
and track inside stuck to our shoes.
They drop now as the raindrops do—
spinning, skipping in the squall;
muted vestiges of glory
upon the lawns and fields soon sprawl.
Each year the same old fate unfolds
by early frost and chill propelled,
this final blaze of reds and golds
as season bids her last farewell.
And as the colors dissipate
we feel that ever-growing pall;
the long cold winter lies in wait—
for now, we’ll revel in the Fall.
© Ginny Brannan 2016