Green turns,
without announcement to
crimson red.
Bypassers see the leaves as
all dead.

Green is a soothing color (though sprinkled with envy),
Red is the color of passion (or blood, or strawberries.)

They entangle, battle, endlessly struggling
untill brown reigns supreme.
It is not good to be chained by the turn of the seasons.

They glide into each other effortly and aimlessly,
swirling with gusts in arms of acceptance.
I, however shall reject their gentle nature:
even as the the wind assaults my window,
i shall quell its forever blow.
(Old yellow never cries, for she is a means
to the end.)

Fall is arriving.
It's almost time for the birds to fly south
South, south, and further south.

How far south, I wonder
but dont care.
I will not be going.
I won't even be watching.

I just keep what is mine.