The impossibly vibrant autumn leaves

 that appear during the early months of fall

 have more in common with us than we give them credit for.

 Their flaming color, 

 their intensity,

 remains untouched by the numb granite sky’s dreary atmosphere. 

 Soon,

 when the air turns colder,

 and the days grow shorter, 

 the infection slowly spreads, 

 deliberate as ink blossoming onto a page, 

 but far less beautiful. 

 The unadulterated leaves

 dilute a bit in color, 

 but cling to the essence of their fiery oranges,

 and their passionate reds,

 slipping away indefinitely. 

 The sickeningly lovely innocence of these pure leaves cannot last forever,

 and it is stripped when the unwanted visitor, 

Frost,

 creeps in overnight. 

 The leaves release the last of their willpower

 and drop from the trees; 

 the once-precious flaming color 

 has morphed into a rusty, dejected brown.

 The beauty and rarity once associated with the foliage

 has been replaced by empty shells

 discarded on the ground, 

 fragile as a scorched piece of paper 

 and numb as the ruthless winter sky. 

 The people shake their heads 

 in shame at such an exquisite sight wasted,

 ignorant of their own roles in the transformation

 while the cheated leaves waste away as an afterthought,

 haunted by their stolen beauty.