George told me that during the fall we see the actual color of the tree leaves,
the red, golden, pink tipped beauty,
the purple blistering, the orange.
All summer, needing to be fed,
the chlorophyll camouflages what is their true nature.
I do not need to strain or twist this fact
to make it true for me too.
In our small deaths, in the midst of the fall,
with very little to convert sunlight into sustenance,
my eyes are darker brown, my heart deep purple.
The colors I lean toward whisper the winter truth of me.
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