Old Autumn Tree

I saw an autumn tree of burnished gold,

whose scaly limbs were tired, its branches old;

and 'neath the blackened trunk in clumps of weeds,

the grass was tawny amber ~ ripe with seeds.

The wind was gently pushing leaves along

and played a brittle, fragile, raspy song.

The noise resembled bunched up paper balls

that breezes scuttle down deserted halls.

And, as the golden tree released... let go,

each weary leaf began a spiral show.

Descending silently around and round

in pirouetting twists toward the ground.

Each season ages with an innate grace

advancing with a measured, stately pace.

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A Shakespearean Sonnet uses three four-line stanzas and a closing couplet. Written in iambic pentameter.

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