A picture-perfect sunset kisses the dying leaves on the trees for weeks,  And weeks. 
Slowly saying goodbye to the once blooming cornucopia
Until the crisp, cold air cracks open the lonely watermelon tree.
Seedless and bountiful, his beauty will not last much longer. 

His presence is alarming, for autumn at least 
The trees have grown and died. 
Before he was born, his friends were already barren. 
Yet he remains 
Until the crisp, cold air withers his rind and coats the sweet red leaves with winter sugar. Seedless and beautiful, he will fade by tomorrow. 

The rind peeled back to the ground it came from 
Leaving the crimson heart of the fruit to fall and crunch under boots, claws, and tires. 
After death, the hollow branches still danced by the tune of the crisp cold air. 
Seedless and brackish, 
He will turn with the year.