Outside my window,
Behind my half-drawn blinds
Is a world the trees bestow
With leaves, the priceless finds,
So many I cannot count them all,
With tasks and reasons to be there,
Spiraling and rocking in their fall,
Leaving the trees naked, bare.

These orange heralds of the season
Will but rot in their place of rest,
To them, Gaia's final treason.
Oh look, in that tree, a nest,
Abandoned, like a cup without its tea,
Remembering the times before,
The times of fullness and glee,
It begs for that last encore.

The children born inside its arms
Never to remember their wooden mother
Who spent on them her charms.
The legion of droplets, a new bother,
Advancing carelessly without form,
Onto the leaves the autumn left behind,
One of many a gray friendless storm
With autumn's approach you will find.