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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