Quite possibly, it had been my fault.

The leaves turned to flames,

Catching the sun, turning to gold

To ruby scarlet, to deepest amber,

Falling on the hot, black pavement,

Cooled and steaming with last night’s rain.

They looked so pretty there.

The ground all covered in light.

I can’t speak,

Not for you,

Not for me.

The leaves looked so pretty.

They shrivel up so quickly, though.

Every year, they shrivel up so quickly.

Like paper, they curl inwards,

The dips and peaks of their generous shape,

Scrunching together in a wrinkled roll,

Turning a dull, dark shade of brown

That crunches audibly underfoot.

We had run out of things to say.

So, we parted.

The old, sick maple,

Split in the middle from heavenly spite,

That sits in a small patch of yellow-green grass

Let's spill from its sparse, fragile branches

Light.

It does this every year,

A seasonal affair that leaves it

Sicker and more exhausted than before,

But still, it disperses light.

And yet…

I believe that this is its last year.

The leaves have crumbled beneath the feet

Of passing civilians, ready

For summer to end and autumn to begin,

While we had waited far too long