The colors bleed into brown, red to rust, green to yellow.

The maple leaves will change and fall with a certain grace-- November will begin.

It mourns the soft breeze of summer, the baked earth from the sun, but looks forward eagerly to the cool rain, and rest in dormancy.

I stand next to the gnarled wood of the tree, placing my hand on the jagged surface.

This time, I'll follow the seasons. I 'll rest and let the autumn bleed from me my growth and energy.

Winter will freeze me, it's icy fingers clutching my heart, winding around my...