The autumn leaves remain idle,
the end of their great recital.
Red and small, for after the year,
their trees reject that they’re vital.
An ominous cloud circles near.
Without any sound to hear.
Though it’s odd, a cloud unlike all;
for not rain nor wind does it bear.
A cloud, then a fog, then a flake,
save for one, not a person awake.
The finale of fall brings an icy grey sky,
this cloud will bring snow by daybreak.
The hours of resting go by,
yet aware sits a child awry.
Restless until out the window he spies
the white blanket for winter is night.
Though the child is dreary, his eyes become weary
and he smiles for winter is night.
The sun has burnt out, blue dispersed from the sky.
