I am the burning fall.
My skin velvet, silky and smooth
(the dying always grow wrinkly and soft,
never tough and tight.)
My body, a heart,
symbolizing the love mother gave.
She nurtured, cleansed and harbored me,
though she could not protect me forever.
Slowly the elements wore holes in my flesh.

The villainous sun has thieved my youthful green.
My veins lay exposed. Death has begun
his calling; my name rings like the bell
of a church tower from his mouth.
Though I cling to youthful hue,
I am now the color of dying,
a sunset lingering too long on the horizon.
Nature is heavy and bears me to mother
like all my brothers and sisters before.
Who could hold death magnificently as I?
Still showing that once I was
the peak of glory and innocence.