It started with a few siblings departing solitarily.
One-by-one they cut their ties to source
And drifted down, down, down to rest on the ground
Forming a quilted welcome mat
For those of us still to come.
On cue, the maestro
Waved in Autumn,
Raising his baton and,
At his urging,
We launched into the air together.
In a single, choreographed moment
Our golden horde
Pirouetted from our parent trees
And sailed into the atmosphere.
We didn’t plummet,
But rocked in our airy cradles,
Back and forth,
Coddled by the breeze
Until we came to embrace our prostrate peers.
We cossetted on their remains
Now browning on the ground.
Soon we too will turn brown
And become skeletal shadows
Of our former golden selves
And then, before spring, even our skeletons will fade.
Then, we will be only a memory.
A remembrance of golden flight
Lofting in the fall breeze.
David Hanig 