The trees branch out their reds and yellows.
Their last battle cry before the frost.
The further north, the more pronounced
As they recall the life they lost.
Shouting in color upon deaf ears,
Such beauty produced at a deadly cost.
The reds rage on
With blistering hate.
“Is there no escape
From our inevitable fate?”
The orange reminisce
On the seasons before.
“Winter is knocking,
But Spring is next door.”
The yellows enjoy
The weather while it lasts.
“Best to live in the present
Than the future or past.”
The browns mutter softly
The last lesson to learn.
“From dust I arose,
So to dust I return.”
The leaves then soon scatter into the winter breeze
To leave silent and naked the once colorful Autumn trees.