The Ferns are stubborn,
they fight in their pots
slowly thinning since Autumn crept in
stealthily.
The sneakiest season,
Autumn whispers
its cool breath against your warm wet skin as you get out of the ocean
in late August.
Just one or two chilly words, it’s only warning before it comes
to kill Summer.
You never know which night will be the last night of Summer.
I can still feel Summer’s spirit in Autumn.
It’s the bargaining Autumn does with Winter.
It teases Winter by opening the sky
and letting in just enough of the Sun to fool the young
into thinking…
maybe…
But Winter knows better.
Winter doesn’t need to compromise.
Winter always wins.
Sometimes, just for a little while, Winter lets Autumn make a fool of itself
before it captures the Day.

I wonder what, if anything, the leaves on the neighbor’s tree tell the Ferns.
Do they warn the Ferns of Autumn’s slyness,
of Winter’s approach,
or do the leaves mock the Fern’s obstinance.
Maybe the leaves burst into color in unspoken reverence,
in admiration.
Nothing dies so beautifully as the leaves.
Nothing falls so beautifully to the Earth.
Maybe the leaves would trade just a bit of color
for the strength to hold a few shades of green
until the first snow.