#poemsaboutfall

Spring is often spoken of as a time of birth and new life. What, then, do we call Autumn? As our new life of spring has gotten old and begins dying off, what then? The leaves turn to beautiful crimsons and golds, to remain only for a short while longer. Is this their peak, only to die directly after? Do they fall to the ground satisfied that even if it was for but a moment, they turned their tree into a masterpiece? As the flowers cute old ladies worked so hard to grow to make their yard beautiful turn a sad brown, what passes through their mind? Do they think themselves as phoenixes, that they will decay and from their rot will next year be a new flower, or them all over again? Is this a funeral, or a celebration of life? Could it be a reminder that things that are good and beautiful are almost always temporary? Not only that, but even after something beautiful is gone, a new kind of beauty stands in its place. I suppose that is it.