Fall to Grace

Sunsets, trees call in the wind.
The fall is here to claim her seeds.
Ornamental leaves fight in the street, ripping each other to shreds.
Mixing and stirring she howls in the dying darkness, for some are honored to be the soil.
I wonder if the seeds know, this show exists for them.
Steeped through long nights of terror and tussle.
Seeds dream the fathers winter as he brings out the frosted whip.
A hard shell glazes over the dead and dying with every crack.
Encased in a cold shallow grave, buried alive amongst fallen brethren, questioning the validity of ones own through a deep and clouded slumber.
Only a soft rememberence of what once was and what is meant to be, of the mothers sway in the fathers cool breeze.
Spring she teases, waxing and waning the old mans coat.
Exposing the loam of brotherhood, although dead, still stand to hold the water, hold the seed, into the mornings dawn.
Roots labyrinth down honoring the ancestral rights, supporting the brave buds journey upward to crack the soil, meeting itself at last.