The first sign

is the ring

of decay, encircling

my Grandfather’s roses;

pale yellow,

draining color from petals

like the colander Aunt Susan uses to bleed away water

from the spaghetti.

The ring grows, extinguishing the roses’ pink fire

as they crumble away, laughing.

The fireflies that frequented the front yard,

my own personal, grounded constellation blink

out into oblivion; the darkness that remains stares back at me.

The warm breezes that once wrapped around me

like a blanket, are shredded by cool, metallic scissors,

inching closer to their next victim.

The sun retreats

behind black clouds, unwilling to watch;

the Sun is cruel.

Leaves are carelessly ripped off,

by eager hands, bloodied

against sharp branches,

leaking crimson to the horizon.

Ground turns to steel, air turns to poison,

I fall, choke on

illusive oxygen;

Autumn is called Fall for a reason.

I will never praise the cold.