The leaves crushed beneath my old boots,
Crimson and gold, in the chill of dry air.
The butterflies sleep where the wind roots,
Their wings stilled, resting in quiet slumber.

The sky weeps clouds, heavy with winter’s chill,
While shadows stretch long, clinging to the trees.
The earth hums softly the promise of death,
But life’s in the rustle of fallen leaves.

The sun sinks low, its warmth fading away,
A distant...