The crunch and crack of the rustling maroon and orange leaves,

They seem to burning with the pigments of fire consumed from the sun.

The crisp fall air, a refreshing gulp, a small serenity, a bitterness,
Gelid, yet has you tranquil with the brisk swirling gale.

The setting sun, a rare beauty of blaze orange, yellows, and reds, like blood,

The sun warming and the wind chilling, synchronizing the perfect harmony.

But it’s also the death of life, the end, the shriveling of the emerald greens,
The cold’s warning will soon engulf the colors and radiance,

The infernos of beauty, dying out emeralds, to a crimson red ruby,
A blood shed for a simple leaf, letting go from the strong umber branch. A

Defeat, a battle lost, the spilled crimson, a graveyard of beauty, yet it floats
Down with grace, a simple descent, a surrender to the ground, a fall.