Summer's Dead
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Approaching a grove of maple trees,
my spirit soars with these swaying giants.
Musky odors assault my nostrils;
the smell of dead, damp, decaying leaves,
nature's scent of life in 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.
(Blank Verse)
9/18/2017
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017
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