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As the days grow shorter, I look out my window
and wonder of all the changes in the air.
Of the trees losing life, without much strife
But in the end letting go with despair.
Like the sand of the sea, orange pumpkins abound,
Growing big and ripe without ever leaving the ground.
Cornstalks sprout up, ears filled with blue, red, and yellow,
While sitting on his porch a grown man plays his cello.
The air grows crisp with few cirrus clouds above,
Their angel-wing wisps watching over the skies with love.
Meanwhile, apple pies galore,
Men making merry at get-togethers they promise won’t bore.
While all enjoyment flutters about, a sense of sorrow begins to sprout,
For the old tree is having its doubt.
The magnificent oak, a century old, wonders with anguish if this will be his last shout,
And just as the wind delivers a knockout.
The few remaining leaves catch on the flow,
Beaming orange to the ground, they go.
And as they settle down to earth, saying one last goodbye,
A biting frost emerges, muffling up their final cry.