Death

 I came home and you were wilted beyond repair.

The leaves fall, winds and rains come, nuts drop.

All days are cooler, it is coming, the death of things.

Gone is the green, here comes brown, grey, colorless.

Fields burn, another sign, skies gone, no sun.

It is a requirement of its own, a time to stop.

Remember...the green, spring, new flowers.

Grief is okay though, so sit here with the dead.

Remember what has been, and grieve well.

Say good bye so you may continue on.

It is this path of seasons held in tension.