A poem in fall

Autumn is letting slip her mantel
with its plumes of ochre and orange of plum and vermilion.

The trees that in their green and silver shawls
whispered and gossiped amongst themselves
Fall mute �

Their tongues loosed and free at last.

Winter now descends in black and white.
Quiet, deceiving.
The trees writhe in pantomime where they stand.
And the wind � robbed of voice � cuts
with cold fingers through blood to bone.

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