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The trees mourn in the last days of a dying summer.
They stand strong and brave-faced in late August,
Masking the brief chill of the nights with heavy green coats,
All pretending the sun is not slowly slipping away.


Then comes the denial of early September,
When they flush a brilliant, defiant gold,
Clinging tightly to the warmth they remember,
Whispering amongst themselves that the frost is but a lie.


The anger rages through the end of September
As autumn storms shake and rattle an ever weary canopy,
Striking down the weak and stubborn alike,
Leaving a carpet of bruised and battered hues in their wake.


By the new October, however, they’ve started bargaining with the wind,
Trading their richest rubies and crimsons
Just to keep the branches clothed a little longer,
Paying a toll of amber for a few extra hours of light.


By mid-October, a quiet depression has settled in,
A gray melancholy under a heavy overcast sky,
Where the half-bare branches hold nothing but mist and memories,
And the forest surrenders what it can no longer hold.


By the starting days of November, they are finally crying,
A sudden downpour of everything they held inside,
As the last frozen tears shower down to the earth,
Leaving them to accept that they are bare, empty, and beautifully at peace.