Sunday, November 3, 2013
Golds and browns, accept your fate ~
a chill arrives, it's getting late.
Your branches gray, with dying moss ~
prepare again for season's loss.
Sleep is due with curling leaves ~
that gather 'neath the forest trees.
Creatures come to build their nests ~
for Autumn's time gives way to rest.
Sleep oh forest without a sound ~
in beauty deep of golds and browns,
Of golds and browns ~ sleep ~