End of November,
when autumn exhales its final warmth,
leaving its place for winter.
The leaves fall,
swaying with the wind,
in hopes of finding new beginnings,
where winter does not reign—
in hopes of finding autumn once again,
missing the soft, sun-kissed ground,
the thriving animal kingdoms.
Yet, once again,
the warm breeze dances away.
the chariot of the sun goes to slumber,
the sky misses its stars,
the petals fall from the flower,
the soldier departs for war,
the poet loses their muse.
All creatures mourn fall’s departure,
preparing for the killing cold,
only now realizing
the peace it once held.
Time changes,
transforming into memories.
Stories end,
turning into myths.
I know that autumn will return—
but is it the same autumn
that wakes from its death?
Or is it another,
sent to replace it?
Flowers die, and new ones sprout;
Creatures hide, and new ones emerge.
So, are we so attached to the past fall
that we call the coming the same—
hoping it did not succumb
to winter’s tragic fate?
