The fall

photo by K. Inglis

Gently.
One after another, again and again,
They fall.
Their origin the same,
Their motion similar,
Grace, music, beauty
In the wind.

A slow dance, a soft rhythm,
A carefree, winding journey,
A bursting opera of colors.
These leaves, like ballerinas
Swirl over the stage of the earth,
As they usher in the beginning
Of an end.

The end begins, lightfooted, glorious,
Jubilant, no, not sorry or sad
For what is to come.
The color of the season almost screams
Its disowning, its denial, of the winter white.
The leaves weave,
They gather, fly, carry, bury
The story of a fall.

Not our story, though.
Our fall was not gentle,
Not colorful, or carefree.
No grace, glory, or music for us.
Our fall has not been a journey,
One after the other, leaving, weaving,
On a well-lit, welcoming stage.
Our fall has been hard,
The savage dance of death.

Its sound loud and clear,
Its motion swift and strong,
As we fell,
Heavy, rotten, crashing,
Like a felled tree.

We did not see the beginning,
Only the end. The end. The end. The end.
As we lay on the cold, hard ground,
We knew what was to come.
We owned it, we extended our arms to it,
We welcomed its darkness.
As we buried our offspring,
And carried their stories,
We crept, like reptiles, our hearts cold,
Into an eternal winter white.

No, fall, all your falling leaves
Cannot equal the fall
Of a single babylost life.

The season is changing. After your loss(es), what does this mean to you? How do you feel in fall? Do you relate to it in any way? If you do, how? If you don't, why not?