The season of ghosts

Autumn. I always find myself delving into the skeletons of the trees.. the color that covers their leaves before their long winter slumber. They are now, only ghosts. And so am I for as long as they will be.

My dreams are with the writhing branches, that reach for the bright blue sky. Even when it turns to grey, they never cease to try reaching it. Their hands are covered in paint... the opposite colors of the ocean above them. These shells.. of what once was living remain as a memory after the [paint slowly drops off leaving their hands as nothing but bare bones.They gave up their gold and ruby treasures to cover the landscape. They shed this paint from their hands to create a beautiful picture... and their art is left only for a short time, for all to remember these leaves that will never be the same. Every year, their painting changes, never quite like the last; Just as no snowflake is like another. So I appreciate their masterpiece while I can.
And until the season turns...

for now..

I am autumn.