Summer's Dead
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Walking through a grove of maple trees,
I saunter amongst swaying giants.
Musky odors assault my nostrils
with the smell of damp, decaying leaves.
Nature's scents 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;
and applaud newly fallen brethren,
lazily fluttering to the ground.
In Autumn's scheme, green gets 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.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017
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