Fall Poem by Amo Mokobane

The leaves wear their Sunday best before collapsing from bullets at church.
Morticians waiting on every corner a day early.
The trees turn ashen from horror but they remain rooted.

Autumn, my beautiful tragedy.
Your hue is sunset and soil.
Infrared as volatile as your mood.

My love, I miss your summer but I crave your winter because that is when you need me.

Last night I begged the earth to stop just for a second so that I can have one more tempest with you. I just wanted to feel something, anything from you.

I despise your autumn.
Please don't fall.
Don't fall.