The Rustling Leaves
Amber, crimson, golden light,
A painter's dream, a wondrous sight.
The autumn wind, a whispered song,
Where rustling leaves all dance along.
The Equinox, a fleeting spell,
Its blessings cast, its stories tell.
In fleeting hues, the trees bestow,
A fleeting fire before the snow.
The branches shed their summer’s past,
And weave a quilt so rich, so vast.
A tapestry upon the ground,
Where nature’s colors bloom unbound.
Soft footsteps crunch the season’s gift,
As children leap and laughter lifts.
They chase the breeze in wild delight,
While leaves swirl golden in their flight.
A symphony of rustling sound,
A fleeting beauty, so profound.
Each leaf a note, a whispered cheer,
That marks the passing of the year.
The trees may bare their souls to frost,
Yet never is their splendor lost.
For in this blaze, so brief yet bright,
Lives Autumn’s grace, its last respite.
And when the morning sky turns gray,
The leaves remain where once they lay.
A golden sea in slumber deep,
Where autumn’s dreams drift off to sleep.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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