Summer's Dead
Walking through a grove of maple trees,
I saunter amongst swaying giants.
And musky smells assault my nostrils
with odors of damp, decaying leaves:
Nature's scent, in perfect harmony;
nurturing and invigorating.
Sunlight pierces the bare canopy
with flickering rays of its splendor.
And a crisp carpet of freeze-dried leaves
forms a mosaic of abstract art:
a magnificent patchwork quilt, stitched
with burnt-orange and magenta threads.
Twigs tap a melodic, rhythmic sound,
their mantra, heard in lofty branches.
And a gentle breeze tickles each leaf
until they all laugh in unison:
applauding newly fallen brethren,
lazily fluttering to the ground.
In Autumn's scheme, green is restricted
to grasses and mosses hardly seen.
And awaiting Winter's frigid breath,
a rusty golden-speckled mantle:
painted with flames of searing scarlet,
forms a fitting shroud: for Summer's dead.
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