Leaves
 

Leaves drifting from ancient trees,
Like golden feathers on a breeze,
Tumbling, turning, floating, falling,
Silently, as in a dream.

Gold in the air and underfoot,
Fragile as a crystal flute,
Autumn’s treasure again blows free,
Wandering over the earth.

Soon the piercing cold will chill,
Freezing, frosted flakes will spill,
Burying deep the golden hoard,
Beneath a bed of silver snow.

When the silver melts away,
To signal milder, warmer days,
The earth reclaims her cache of gold,
To reinvest for Spring.