Autumn leaves are turning now
the hills awash with gold and red
rich purple waiting on winter’s break
a vibrance Vincent could have painted
on the landscape under starlight
Autumn leaves are old parchment in my hands
dry rustling in forgotten corners
fragile falling and crumbling
bygone reminders of spring
tossed in eddies and breezes
Autumn leaves are signs of winter’s march
and when the first snow flies they vanish
in frosty cloaks concealed ‘til thaw
hidden love letters to sun and warmth
and I will miss these things
when autumn leaves

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