Softly, does the Gold
Seep through the Green
Of those resting
After a busy Summer.
And before long you’ll see,
The gentle touch of Midas,
Caressing the boughs of those
Who have stood, for many a year.
But, as frost appears on the horizon,
These Ancient ones will not slumber,
As nature sends one last breath
So that they may dance once more.
And, as they are set free,
Dance they do.
In a flurry of Gold and Brown
They Twirl, Pirouette
Spin and Curl
Round upturned faces.
They alight on the surface of lakes
As ripples race for the other shore.
Together, they Whirl,
With the wind ever at their back,
Round and round the admiring eyes
Of a boy to whom Autumn is Beauty.
But, before long, they settle down.
They make a gentle carpet over the green
As comfort from the onset
Of winter and its chill.
They quieten down
And prepare for sleep.
Safe, in the knowledge,
That one day,
They will dance again.
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