The colors bleed into brown, red to rust, green to yellow.

The maple leaves will change and fall with a certain grace-- November will begin.

It mourns the soft breeze of summer, the baked earth from the sun, but looks forward eagerly to the cool rain, and rest in dormancy.

I stand next to the gnarled wood of the tree, placing my hand on the jagged surface.

This time, I'll follow the seasons. I 'll rest and let the autumn bleed from me my growth and energy.

Winter will freeze me, it's icy fingers clutching my heart, winding around my soul.

Maybe someone will find me?

Then when all is completely still....the warmth that is spring will thaw my frigid heart and I'll reach again for the life of being with others only to fade back into a memory as soon as the hues on the leaves change.

One day--they'll find me, myself, my tree and cut me me down and then I won't return, but I'll walk in shadows of memory.