The maple leaves

have not yet changed color 

but they hang disheartened

limp and ragged 

their points all face downward

towards the earth,

scouting their destination perhaps.

The tree was in the shade

behind it bright morning son lit the firs 

whose needles had no future plans 

secure in their attachment

their community of coniferous contentment.

But the maples were tentative,

not knowing that they

had still a period of brilliance ahead

and that when they did finally

let go

that they would do so together

and their yellowed time

would still be spent

as one