Fall

The trees, still green, have taken on spots of orange
and red.  They look like mangoes.
I want to peel them
and suck the rough, sweet flesh within.
People are like mangoes, somehow.

Like organelles, we churn mechanically —
constantly building,
consuming,
expanding.

We form, bulbous,
at the socket of some appendage, growing,
ripening.
Ripening.
Ripening.
And dropping off.

The wind doesn't mind our bruises,
it doesn't mind our colors, or patterns.
As we fall to the ground with it's hand at our back,
it doesn't care
if we have a purpose,
and it will never stop to consider our deeds.
It tears us from the nipple of creation
so we may create once more.

People
are like mangoes.