She lies in her bed, book beneath her tired head,
strands of red-brown hair
blocking her view of the window across the room;
she brushes them away and looks.
She sees red, yellow, and sunset-orange leaves blown against
the window. Her hair consists of autumn leaves. The trees have
resigned themselves to seasonal death, but not without a final
display of vibrant color.
Not without the promise of the falling leaves, who declare,
though we fall, we return. Come April, come May, we will
be green again, delicate, ephemeral spring running through
our plant veins; though we die, once again we will live.