Golden leaves swaying
On a November breeze
Floating, cascading down
Landing on soon to be
Frozen, winter ground.
Woods are silent, hushed, listening
To the still quiet as a hunter lurks
Waiting to kill in the midst
Of golden leaves falling, raining down
Upon barren, dying ground.
~ Patrice
© Patrice Clarkson – 2014
Available at PatriceClarkson.com
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This work by Patrice Clarkson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on work at patriceclarkson.wordpress.com.
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