October Brings No Rest For These

Emerald etchings are given birth to bask their lives in summer's sun, until brushing brutal winters cheek, They cower yellow; brown undone. Swirling down onto concrete pyres, They somersault to a random grave. The earth lays claim to copper corpses But the winter wind is a cunning knave. It finds and flips the fallen fibers, then flings them crisply to the street. The failing sheaves of burnt magenta, tossed like chaff from harvest wheat. Now strewn about with playful malice, and denied the resting place they crave, for the golden sun is a glint of amber, but the winter wind is a chilling knave.