The Parliament of Falling Leaves

We fall.
Do not mistake our descent for surrender—
we are teachers, heralds, and witnesses
to the cycles you often forget.

I am crimson,
once cradled by the sun,
I carried the laughter of a child
who ran beneath my shade.
I fall now, whispering:
“Remember joy, even as you grieve.”

I am gold,
humming with the memory of love lost,
of hands that slipped apart like wind through branches.
I spiral to the earth,
singing softly to those who linger in memory,
reminding them that letting go is not betrayal,
but an act of courage.

I am bronze,
tinged with the quiet ache of time itself,
each vein a story etched in patience,
each edge curled with the wisdom of seasons.
I tumble and twist in the air,
dancing with my kin,
teaching the world that endings
carry within them the seeds of beginnings.

Together, we form a parliament,
a congress of color and whisper,
debating softly in the language of wind,
arguing gently with gravity,
and laughing in the silent applause of the trees.

We land, but we are never gone.
We fold into soil,
into the heartbeat of roots,
into the hidden rivers beneath the frost,
and there, in darkness and quiet,
we dream of green reborn,
of suns rising, of children laughing again,
of hands finding hands.

Do not mourn our fall.
Celebrate it.
Hear the rustle of our passage,
see the fire of our flight,
and learn from our letting go
that grief is not the end,
that sorrow and beauty can dance together,
and that the weight of release
can lift the heart higher than the grasp of fear ever could.

We are autumn.
We are memory, mourning, and renewal.
We are every ending braided into the promise of spring.
Listen closely, and you will hear us speak:
“Fall. Let go. Trust. Rise again.”

- Khushi Kaul