I see the truth,
it’s clearer each day I see the river falling.
Around it, fading green leaves,
a momentary pause before igniting.
The single color I see
is washing away with the heat.
The shadows that once hid
are now stretching forth again.
but the chill creeping in
is rendering the breeze a hymn,
a whispered word,
and it sounds like “autumn.”
©September 2014, Christina Anne Hawthorne