You can fight it but it will happen.
The leaves that you fell in love with, the leaves that gave you shade from the harsh summer cloud.
They will fall.
You know that you will be out there, treading through the damp grass, sweeping the little dry brown red corpses into a rustling pile of death.
They will fall.
The branches will stand stark and bare before the grey sky.
They will fall.
And like them you know that you too will die, you will join the earth and feed the ground.
And as you lie beneath the earth they will make a blanket for your dissolving self.
They will fall.
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