The Seasons - Les Saisons
When the frigid fingers of Jack Frost
Flash out to shrivel the cringing leaves ...
Swaying branches drip tears of scarlet, yellow,
And flaming orange ...
Weeping forests wail silently
With swaths of cascading foliage,
Piling swiftly to mounds of disintegrating debris --
Shuffling and whispering in gusting eddies of wind.
Sometimes, like the ghost of summer-past
Returning to the scene of its poignant demise,
'Indian Summer' unfurls in soft, peaceful days
And warm, caressing breezes.
Then autumn rushes back
To reclaim its intrinsic birthright...
Handmaiden to the coming