Crimson and gold cling to the maple trunks with the desperation of a dying season.
They cannot hold on in the exhale of winter.
With a flutter to the ground,
it is finished.
They know.
And I know.
With the color of harvest at my feet, I wrap myself against the cold
And watch
As the weaker leaves scuttle in the breath of the afternoon.
They are never to been seen again.
With the next rain, they will turn the color of earth and be gone.
Separated from the tree that gave them life.
Will they miss her? Do they realize?
Have they willingly stepped aside for the promise that unfolds, velvety green, after the winter lifts?
I give a nod to the rich carpet of leaves and turn my back to the trunks that are letting go.
It is time.
It is time to set aside my grief for the old
and breathe in the new.
Every season,
Every promise,
Every imprint,
Every ceremonial transition,
And the memory of each one that has gone before.

Happy Thanksgiving.