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has been replaced by empty shells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.
