Winter"s icy hands reach out toward Autumn
with silent fingers of chilly death.
The trees know this
and push forth their brightest hues before
those freezing fingers warp
hardening trunks
and numb the life within.
The leaves fall dying to the frozen ground
tender vessels on which my dreams reside
and as each bright red drop
falls to the dusty earth
my once bright dreams fall
now brittle husks of brown decay
to be raked into piles
and run over in the busy street.
