Fallen Leaves
By Don Iannone

.

.

.

.
.

.

.

Battered tie-died leaves
tumble helplessly
to the waiting forest floor.
Unrelenting sheets of rain pummel
the trees' thick coats
into uncontested submission.
Naked and shivering,
the trees ready for winter's paintbrush
to color them in unadulterated whiteness.

Fall Magic
By Don Iannone

The glorious turning fall leaves
torture my sensibilities
with candy-sweet pleasure.
They leave me gasping,
like a diver submerged too long,
beholding the magical coral reef below.
They rip my heart out,
which goes chasing after whispering butterflies,
whose wings brush away lingering clouds.
And I thought early spring wildflowers
were hard to say goodbye to.

With Gentle Strokes She Paints
By Don Iannone

Fall hints
of her coming,
touching the leaves
with gentle strokes of color,
not unlike the painter
who starts out shy,
not knowing exactly where
her heart will carry the brush.
The masterpiece is complete, only when
her heart is full from giving.

Turning Leaves Messaging Change
By Don Iannone

The leaves know their days are numbered,
as the sun visits them less often
and the stars play tic-tac-toe
much longer into the night.
All those earlier painting lessons pay off,
as the leaves meticulously bodypaint themselves
in rich hues of yellow, orange, red, and rust.
One last hug,
and the leaves let go,
as the autumn breeze lifts their spirits
and gently brings them to rest on the ground,
where they form a plush rainbow carpet.
The glorious fallen leaves,
like the sparkling snowflakes that follow them,
are God's messengers that change is our essence.

Signs of Fall
By Don Iannone

Today a rust-colored leaf fell quite helplessly
from the large maple tree in the front yard.
There was no wind.
It was just its time to let go.
I listened as a stateman-like bluejay squawked nonstop,
forewarning us of swirling red-tail hawks,
who eyed the plump young morning doves, sitting in pairs
in the red cherry trees in the back woods.
The bluejay's shriek poked the air,
like sharp needles chisling colorful upper arm tattoos.
We found two writhing baby garter snakes
in the garage earlier in the week.
Both wore bright yellow necklaces--
the sort a mother gives her daughters
to wear at their debutante ball.
The flowers are enroute to seeds,
and their nectar runs sweet,
enticing full-bloom monarch butterflies
to cling much longer to their sticky honey.
Another Labor Day has passed,
and the kids stand in bunches along the road,
awaiting the golden rod-colored school buses
that carry them off to noisy classrooms,
filled with rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed youngsters,
who swap larger than life stories
about the summer that is gone,
like their innocence, once the teaching begins.
I long for a closer look at the fallen leaf,
but settle instead to let go of it,
along with my clinging to long sun-filled days.
My winter spirit is early this year, and my soul
is already warming itself by the blazing fireplace.