Between the Falling

Between the falling leaves and the soft ground they find, time holds its breath— the air forgets how to move.

In this amber pause, every gesture becomes eternal: a hand releasing what it cannot keep, a voice that echoes through rooms before the words take flight.

The trees remember colors they will never wear again. Some beauties live only in their ending— that particular grace of the ephemeral.

And we, brief witnesses to this descent, learn slowly what the seasons know: that letting go is its own language, written in gold leaf and silence, spoken through the grammar of falling.