Meditation 32

We wait for the turn

The inevitability

The end of summer

As the sunlight fades

And the air becomes bitter

We watch for the switch

Spotted and speckled

They start their transformation

Into their true selves

Brilliant are the trees

Decorated in crimson

Adorned in amber

Like the foliage

There is no such thing as change

We become ourselves

Without a real choice

Just as a rock becomes sand

Time erodes the soul

A single leaf falls

Then followed by another

Blanketing the ground