The leaves of many colors are deserting all the trees.
Like soldiers, losing battle, are they tossed upon the breeze.
And some of them, eventually, will make it to the seas.
The flowers in the meadows lay their heads upon the Earth,
As proof of their returning, unto the place of birth.
And though their lives are ended, we must surely know their worth.
Winter blows it's trumpet, long before it's seen ...
And everything around has turned a deader shade of green.
The birds are heading South, again, the wolves will soon grow lean.
But Winter is a Quiet time, the Earth must take a rest,
To gather strength for all the plants to rise, again, from Death.
Plans for Spring are forming, even on this frosty breath.
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