I wasn't ready for the fall

Autumn comes too soon.

Every September, I climb the trees and I clutch the leaves

by their stems; hold on tight. I'm not ready for the fall.

Everything moves on so fast; decided without me that it was time for

something new. I stay behind in the trees, pretend it's still summer

when the morning light hits my cold body, a shy sun ray brushes my cheek

while my hands empty

everything leaves.

Decay spreads around me. Something fresh and new.

I lay naked in the tree top

on naked branches

as voices beg me not to catch a cold;

voices I don't know.

I hold a single leaf in my hand, the last leaf,

pretend it isn't crumbling in my grip,

pretend it's still green;

I wasn't ready for the fall.