The Leaves are Changing

The leaves are changing, and their shades distribute picturesquely, dispersing a somber recapitulation of the drowsy sky. The sting of the lurid sun that has started to blister your skin is becoming unabridged, and you are ready to reconcile with slumber’s remedy. Those rays have seeped through the clouds and fingered your brittle surface when you have pleaded for the moon. You no longer have to surrender to the sun’s obligations just because its illumination depicts productivity even when your machinery cannot absorb the summer’s persistence. 

The leaves are changing, and the ultraviolet meadows can no longer condemn you. The serene air and concealed sun are open to inconsistency. Notice how green no longer consumes the trees as it flaunts its decorative blotch. There are now marbled layers of colors like the lunation of you. The agile wind penetrates the earth at oscillating velocities, and the rain pours as it pleases. You do not have to be one-dimensional and emit the same vigor of radiance each day.

The leaves are changing, and you can breathe because there is no pressure for new beginnings, just existing in a liminal arrangement of the vessels that choose to awaken. Even the seamless portrait of the sky must hibernate. There is no hierarchy between you and the omnipotence of nature; we are all just living at differing paces. The salve of the gentle symphony of vitality will applaud your bravery to accept the interval of rest. You do not have to compete for that.

The leaves are changing, and the world is rewarding itself. Funerals are only planned for eternality; the burial is for what you want to forget. However, a eulogy is an abbreviated speech. Sometimes you have the pen, and sometimes you have the ear, but that does not mean you will lose the ability to write and hear forever. The story does not stop when you refuse to keep interacting with it. Although you have withered and feared a reprise of your past seasons and ongoing grief, the earth rotates on an axis of epilogues and prologues. It will become fertile again, and you will find differences in the same hues. 

The leaves are changing, so you can learn how to love the sun again. The equilibrium of your synthesized healing will cure your jaded veins and swollen palms. When you feel inert in a phase of the moon, you can always depend on the promise of being untethered. The subtle lullabies woven into the inherency of the earth will whisper: nothing lasts forever; what a relief.

The leaves are changing, so you can too.