Autumn, My Reflection

They call autumn a season of sorrow

a graveyard of flowers,

a sky weeping rain,

a silence heavy with endings.

But they do not see what I see.

To me, autumn is not death,

it is rebirth in disguise.

Every tree, every fragile bloom,

has endured the weight of every season,

has carried storms in its roots

and sunlight in its veins.

When they finally let go,

they do so with grace

not defeated,

but preparing for another beginning.

And in them, I find myself.

I too have known the storms,

I too have bent under the weight of life.

Some days, I feel I have died inside,

fallen quiet like leaves against the earth.

But I always rise

again, and again, and again.

Not the same as before,

but softer, wiser,

more alive.

Autumn is not my sadness.

Autumn is my mirror.

It is proof that endings are not endings,

they are the soil of becoming.