Amid the glen of autumns rescind winter draws nigh.
The weeping willow cries for lack of luster – subtleness.
Large berries show hardened – dark on the evergreen.
Tiny, wild, white ones, on underbrush, still seem intact.
Perhaps they are planning to blend with winter’s color?
The earth, again, will hush under layers of snow drift.
Whilst the crocus awaits for springtime to show bloom.
A yellow leaf, once so bright, has lost its fervent appeal.
Mother Nature wipes her blade as red’s fade by death.
Apples left on lonesome trees appear, as if, to be leaves.
The warmth of hot tea, hall aglow, steeps by the stove.
A cold, in my nasals, continues to agitate with-o release.
Two teens are asleep mid this early morn-n hour wake.
Within her girth Mother Nature curtsies in amber frost.
As dim lighting, inside, appears orangey in illumination.