The Language of Falling Leaves

In whispers soft, the autumn speaks,

Through ambered crowns and weathered creeks.

A language borne of time and air,

Of letting go, of hearts laid bare.

The leaves descend, a fleeting waltz,

A graceful fall, free of faults.

Each tumbling piece a quiet refrain,

Of growth achieved, of beauty’s strain.

They tell of summers green and bright,

Of reaching high for fleeting light.

Yet in their fall, they softly say,

That letting go clears the way.

For every branch laid bare and stark,

Shall cradle snow, defy the dark.

And when the springtime whispers near,

New buds will bloom, fresh dreams appear.

The leaves don’t mourn the earth they kiss,

For every fall begets new bliss.

They know the cycles never cease,

Each end a chance for calm, for peace.

So listen close when autumn sighs,

Beneath the cool and fading skies.

Its language hums through rustling trees,

A song of change on every breeze.

And as the leaves drift, golden-hued,

They teach us strength, in quietude.

To grow, to shed, to trust the flow,

To find new life in what we let go.