Every September something Dies - Oct. 22, 2024

two thousand six hundred miles

east of here I was raised

in the Appalachian foothills

autumn painted maple and oak leaves

in primary colors before they fell

here it’s over a hundred degrees

and leaves still drop

their deaths a less dramatic

default brown from green exhaustion

no funeral reds or yellows

it’s the fatality of summer

a student’s collapse of freedom

the murder of early dawns and

late evenings  warm water  flowers

a fall that pre-curses winter

a change of clothing and mourning

things that remain unfinished

a dream  project  goal  deep desire

an expiration of promises

that desperation to make a change

and with no preparation for

what’s coming we are dragged

into a life after death like a seed

thrown into a burrow  hiding

and huddling to survive

until with one spring sun

beneath the dead leaves

warmth hits a nerve

and it starts again

life unfurling