“The Fall is coming, look.”
“It’s winter, already,” you say,
“The Fall has come and gone.”

“Look again,” I insist;
“It’s on its way. And we shall fall
Like the leaf, each alone.”

“What’s up with you?” you ask.
“The leaves shall spring again, of course;
The Fall returns next year.”

“It’s been coming for years,
Approaching slow and relentless.
It will be on us soon.”

The leaf’s always ignored,
for tasty fruits and pretty flowers,
Until it’s time to fall.

The falling leaf is seen,
Colourful, melancholy, but
It’s dead – and that’s all.

Beyond the reach of words
That can hurt or prick or ignore.
The leaves will have moved on.