Beneath the slanting light of fading days,
The forest hums in whispers soft and low.
In gentle winds, the branches bend and sway,
While painted leaves in drifting patterns flow.
The gold dissolves in ember’s tender hue,
And crimson blooms like fire along the bough.
Each fleeting shade declares the season true,
Though frost’s pale hand encroaches even now.
They tumble down to weave the earth’s embrace,
A quilt of time in russet, flame, and gold.
In quiet grace, the year resigns its place,
Its fleeting beauty cherished, never told.
Through change and chill, the living woods still breathe.
And dream of spring beneath the fallen sheath.
