Too Late

Too Late

The trees with their orange and red hues,
singing out to me,
begging and pleading me,
to come laugh and play,
underneath their strong divine branches,
before the time grows to late,
to late to feel the light chilly breeze nipping at my flesh,
to late to hear the crunch of dead and dying leaves underfoot,
to late to smell the living alive nature all around me,
to inhale it all in with gratitude,
before our breath is more for the sake of maintaining warmth,
than pleasure,
as fall makes way the colors fade to sleep,
to prepare for yet another season come springtime,
so go,
before its to late.

Reviews

[Marshall Hanson]

This is a beautiful little poem. Fall being my favorite time of year, I felt a connection to this peace. What I like most about this peace is how visual your word choice is. Keep writing!

[Chrystal Mytears]

Thanks I will