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.
Copyright © Sharon Tideswell | Year Posted 2010
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