Fall Foliage


Abbe Cravinho, Staff Writer

A canvas backdrop a masterpiece lays upon;

“Paint me how you’d like.

I promise I don’t bite,”

Stands a paper and a pen,

“Sign your name when you’ve finished,

Let it dry, fold it up, and place it somewhere it will never diminish.”


The Greens and Golds,

Find a tight hold.

A forever grip that seems it will never slip.

Engraving their names into the silhouettes of the bark.


While the Reds and Yellows

Who deep down know what is going on with the other fellows,

Find it quite easy to stay afloat

And to never gloat.

They stand tall and stout in silence.

Trying not to cause any violence.


But wait.

What about this other side?


The sky disperses a shivering cry.

The Reds

And Yellows

And Greens

And Golds

Have seemed to turn into something quite old.


Almost like someone had to scramble to finish

Like a timer has been set for ten seconds

And you needed to paint Mona Lisa.

A pile of muck

Scraped onto a tree.

The silhouettes faded,

No engraved signatures are located.

The Browns and Blacks, the death of fall

Are found scattered around on the ground,

Crumpled under your feet,

Crinkling in your sleep.


With a simple stroke,

A simple swirl,

There are no more




Or Yellows.



Slowly nipping you from behind

Is the approaching frozen shivers.