Autumn Breeze

A cool breeze ghosts by, rustling the trees.
Leaves drift down; they're dead but free.
A small squirrel runs by, collecting his winter lunches.
As he runs, the ground crackles and crunches.
The squirrel clambers up the tree, in search of acorns.
The amber-colored, yellow, brown, red tree just stays there and mourns.
No one mutters a word.
Only the cool breeze is heard.


Author's Note:
We had to write a poem about Autumn in English class, hence this poem's subject.