The Tapestries of Fall
Mimicked mosaics, seem stitched at the seams
Plaids of crimson, gold, and tangerine dreams
No mystical myth, of tapestries tall
We're graced by their boughs, the legends of Fall
Poets enamored, with pens on the prod
Kneel to this splendored, coniferous god
Till marmalade skies, withered by weather
Watch leaves tumble dry, light as a feather
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