The Parade

They stand tall, they stand short

Slim and wide, they line the road

They press over, crowding together

Shading the lane with their arms

 

Waiting patiently for that moment

Their quiet excitement echoes

With hushed conversations

As the impending parade nears

 

That invisible, ceaseless parade

The aging procession of time

Marches in a purposeful meander

Bringing the changing breeze

 

And they, waiting patiently

Are greeted by the wind

It wisps down the lane

Signaling the yearly cavalcade

 

They hail the coming parade

Releasing their vibrant foliage

The yellow, orange and red confetti

To fly amongst the gala

 

Time continues down the lane

Dancing the colored bits about

In twirling, swirling pageantry

The end, their homage, to summer