Autumn Synesthesia - November 10, 2014

The trees branch out their reds and yellows.
Their last battle cry before the frost.
The further north, the more pronounced
As they recall the life they lost.
Shouting in color upon deaf ears,
Such beauty produced at a deadly cost.

The reds rage on
With blistering hate.
“Is there no escape
From our inevitable fate?”

The orange reminisce
On the seasons before.
“Winter is knocking,
But Spring is next door.”

The yellows enjoy
The weather while it lasts.
“Best to live in the present
Than the future or past.”

The browns mutter softly
The last lesson to learn.
“From dust I arose,
So to dust I return.”

Leafscaping - April 22, 2013

Hours of raking and blowing of leaves
Only to have twice more fall from the trees
By the friendly frolic of an Autumn breeze.

Yet there in the distance an object appears
By the result of your blood, sweat, and tears;
It’s the manifestation of your misplaced fears!

As you creep ever closer to the object in sight,
It’s not long before you’re filled with delight
As your landlocked body begins to take flight
To crash into a leaf pile of impressive height.