The Truth of Blossoms and Dust by Brian Rihlmann

as I walk

among the fading yellow

and reddening leaves

among those bursting orange

or bleeding black

I remember reading somewhere

that these are actually

the true colors of their flesh

the green merely a ruse of summertime

I think back to spring

with its stunning array

of brief blossoms

the lie of its perfume

then ahead to winter

the stripped bare branches

of Sycamores shivering

against a pale sky

perhaps those bones—

those wind rattled skeletons

in skull grey monochrome—

are the truest color of all

the belief tempts me

but this is not so

each is true in its time—

the buds and blossoms

the green leaves

their shriveled

and shredded remnants

just as we were true

in our season

as we burst open

set the world ablaze

with our brilliance

then withered and pulled apart

and even today

as we bask separately

under the same sun

in the truth of our dust