The leaves were past that perfect red.
That red that vibrates --
That red that makes you want to reach, reach up to touch it.
I should've come a week before.
I'd missed that red.
Now half of the leaves had fallen down,
Mixing in with the ground,
Not looking much like leaves at all.
The other half hung to the tree,
Holding, holding but becoming brown.
They'd fall, too, the stubborn ones.
They stayed for now.
They didn't know any better.
But I knew they'd been red once,
And it made me think of you.
Share This Poem