The warm supple rays of yellow and orange strike,
the wilting red pedals getting ready to say goodbye,
Brown leaves wither away,
Covering the firm grass sparkling with frost,
The bare cherry blossom tree standing above,
Bare,
Name not fitting its appearance anymore,
The suburban neighborhood once filled with the sounds of children's laughter,
Basketballs hitting the pavement,
Children jumping on there bikes without training wheels for the fist time,
Parents cheering recording every movement,
As they happily petal down the hard pavement,
Soon returning with dried tears and bruises,
Now silence,
Silence and the frequent whistle of the wind
whisking the hopeless brown petals scattered beneath its home away,
The crisp air swirling around anything with a hint of color,
And snatching it away,
The trees not matching their portraits drawn by sticky fingers,
Hung on refrigerator doors,
Smoke erupts from warm houses shielding themselves,
The street acting almost as the new kid that sits in the corner and nobody talks to,
The single pink petal standing out like a sore thumb,
Waiting,
Waiting to join its brothers and sisters,
drained of their color scattered around the cold cut grass,
Not wanting to let go of its home,
The cherry blossom tree shakes as if letting the petal go with its family,
Wind wraps around the thin pink petal,
Ripping it from the thick brittle branch,
Swirling around and around it becomes one with the soft breeze
The petal free like a popped balloon rides out the energy coming from the cool breeze.