The leaves fall overnight,
a silent storm turning off
the trees with a switch flipped
to Winter; Summer ending things
like a lover leaving with the last
suitcase; some leaves drop sooner,
weakened by drought or just
tired of photosynthesizing,
waving to the sun, ignoring
the bugs and birds that romp
on bark and branch, leaves circling
its valleyed trunk like confetti settling
around an object of affection;
nothing left to come but cold and
gloom and the funk of decay.
Some trees stay green year-round,
leaves scaled like time offered
too much, rough like a face
unwilling to turn towards the dusk,
dropping cones to be kicked away
until next Spring’s promise of bloom;
being forever green both a privilege
and a curse, standing against time
like a monument to patience,
cycling through life’s death and
renewal; there are no failures or
mistakes, no angling for further
improvement, as though nature’s
perfection can be graded;
just to be alive is to be perfect.
©2026, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books