Transitions
Crippled leaves of autumn lay,
strewn across the wilted grass like
bullet ridden soldiers.
Caught woven in chain-link fences and
floating on rooftops,
stripped skeletal trees whisper
this is No Man’s Land.
Limbs succumb to bitter cold
Fuchsia foliage fingers falling through
glossy streams as breath
stays hidden in torn throats to
stay alive,
stay warm.
Exhale crystals freeze mid
air like smoke pillows.
Autumn is dead.