Emerald etchings are given birth
to bask their lives in summer’s sun,
until brushing brutal winters cheek,
they cower yellow; brown undone.
Swirling down onto concrete pyres,
they somersault to a random grave.
The earth lays claim to copper corpses
but the winter wind is a cunning knave.
It finds and flips these fallen fibers,
then flings them crisply to the street.
The falling sheaves of burnt magenta,
tossed like chaff from harvest wheat.
Now strewn about with playful malice,
and denied the resting place they crave,
for the golden sun is a glint of amber,
but the winter wind is a chilling knave.