From Jaded Green

A harvest breeze invites the leaves to shimmy on the tree. In haunting song she sighs and grieves as on her breath they flee. They dance and twirl away from her, sweet fragrance lingers where they were, they dance and twirl, they dance and twirl toward the twilight of the year. A gentle moonlight bathes the leaves that lie upon the ground. Her magic with them interweaves in midnight’s silent sound. They turn to gold from jaded green beneath the moon’s cool waxen sheen, they turn to gold, they turn to gold, and gild a graceful autumn scene. A winter wind disturbs the leaves as they so soundly sleep. The tree’s loss, so the wind believes, gives him the right to reap. He whips them up and whispers low that all the golden leaves must go, he whips them up, he whips them up to clear the way for soft white snow.