Transitions

a short poem

What is it
that makes fall so cliche,
the changing colors,
that incite comfort,
in our own changing bodies.

It is my first in 8 years,
the foliage enveloped,
by thick walls of moss.
dead leaves folded,
under forgotten ferns.

The smell of decay,
so familiar from my childhood,
reminding me,
change can be ugly.