Autumn
Idly do the leaves fall
upon the cold, wet ground.
They float and die in bitter waste
without so much as a sound.
Eventually, the air grows chill
and frost does bite all things.
Breath thus falls short and cloudy
and things begin shivering.
Rain brings little hope of life
along the coast’s windy shore.
‘Tis frozen in the early morning
and numbs the earth sore.
‘Tis a dying season at hand
upon the waning year.
Reminds mankind in beauty and sickness
that winter is nearly here.
