Their Season Done
So the year is nearly ending
Cold bleak winter days now pending,
Beauty though first paid a call
For came the final days of fall,
A kaleidoscope amid the trees
As swirls of gold and crimson leaves,
In autumn gusts, careered around
Then came to rest upon the ground.
Beneath naked boughs, no warming sun
Time to die, their season done.
Copyright © Gary Smith | Year Posted 2018
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