October

Orange. Red. Brown. Dead.

The papery skins on which we tread

Are as cold and as dry as the air

Through which they float and fly. Beware

The coming chill; the time is nigh

For all things rooted down to die.

Those barren, woody skeletons

Will soon be here. As it begins

We’ll watch the world burn then fade

From red and orange to blue and grey,

But worry not. Life isn’t over;

For death is the beauty of October.