Autumn's Dead
Your breath morphs into a November ghost,
a spectral mist that swiftly dissipates.
And barren trees lament the loss of leaves,
as Autumn approaches, where Winter waits.
The wind whistles through the twigs and branches,
rattling the bare bones of the naked trees.
And sings a soulful dirge for Autumn's dead,
as the rivers and creeks begin to freeze.
Frost accumulates upon window panes,
creating frozen swirls of abstract art.
And dry leaves crunch and crackle underfoot,
as rutting bucks challenge their counterpart.
A spent sun slinks low in a teal-grey sky,
as Summer's late bloomers wither and die.
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