The trees begin to wilt and fade;

Another year is on the fall.

Though autumn can defy the odds,

The winter’s cold is bound to call.

 

The daytime’s relegated role

Is limited to minor parts;

Discarded leaves drift down to earth

In patterns of the purest arts.

 

In nights replete with cloudless chill,

We shiver at the crisp-cut moon;

The powdered snow beneath our feet

Is poured from nature’s fertile spoon.

 

Though icy spells at turn of year

Are unavoidable and true,

The brief suspension of life’s churn

Will soon give way to spring’s renew.