All Seasons Come to an End

Winter's breath makes the willow weep with grief for leaving her branches bare as frigid winds blow. She cries for her leaves demise. Life was far too brief. It's the season when sunlight casts a deep amber glow. Ochre leaves have fallen to the ground without a sound, landing in rivers and streams where icy waters flow. Withered brown, they floated in swift currents til drowned. I pitied them as Spring through Fall elapsed too fast. The evolution of seasonal changes is quite profound. I too, am senescent. Years of life have I amassed, but do not etch my epitaph on death's granite stone. I cling to life, and my demise has not yet been forecast. When my season finally ends, I will not moan or groan. Winter's frosted breath will not sever me from my limb until there's been a ripe harvest of the seeds I've sown. When my ears fail to hear, and my vision fades to dim. I will give thanks that my life's cup was filled to the brim.