"Falling Awake," by Mary Chittle

It’s strange how the season of decay

is the time that I feel most alive.

When the world falls

asleep, my soul awakens.

There’s something about the chill

in the air, the bite in the breeze

that creates a warmth, a comfort,

a coziness within.

The beautiful, flaming death

of maples, oaks, and birches

dazzle my summer-softened eyes,

turn them towards the sun-soaked earth.

My flannel-wrapped arms spin

with the dancing, spiraling leaves,

boots crunching their fallen shells

into the colorful carpet.

In the crispness of the air,

I find it easier to breathe.

My head clears as the clouds roll in,

my heart fills with the falling of the rain.

Perhaps the death reminds me of my life.

Of the time, the days I have

spent and all the time I have

left.