Decomposed leaves fall from once beautiful trees.
Silent gusts of wind blow right past me.
These shades of brown are unfamiliar.
Or shades I’ve long to ignore.
This isn’t the Autumn I’ve fallen in love with.
My favorite season. The season of change.
And also, the season of impending death.
I reach out. This tree is hard to touch.
Because these rings still mirror my heart.
Yet, confused as to why it doesn’t resonate.
Empty nests all around. That bird has migrated.
When and where does one Fall in Autumn?
Or rather, is the question:

Has Autumn Fallen?