The spanse of leaves begin to decay
in on themselves.
Their pigments staining with crimson,
as red as the seething that burns through a jealous soul.
Yet, soon are drained of all color,
left as a defeated crumble of what once was beauty.

The trees that shade life throughout the sweltering haze of summer
lose their decor.
Slowly withering to only the bones of their wise structures,
exposing shy centers, that have been concealed
for as long as I can remember.

The light that would penetrate even the darkest of seclusion
gently fades away.
Radiating silently,
hiding in the wake of amplifying clouds

The blades of grass
that were once a glamorous peridot,
adorned by dew crystals at dawn;
whispers left by the moon, filled with its innermost secrets
are now a perished, dehydrated umber.

I slowly accustom to
the lack of color,
the revealed insecurities,
the absence of light,
a vacancy of life.
A numb sadness that is brought about
by change.
The emptiness that is felt
through the transition
into something new.

But,
with every winter
arrives a spring.
An awakening,
bringing life,
a new beginning,
a chance to start over.