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 rivers and the 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 clash, while Autumn snows start.
A spent sun slinks low in a teal-grey sky,
as Summer's late bloomers wither and die.
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