Clinging

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