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The Death of AutumnI mourn the death of Autumn, as the oak trees shed their last golden leaves. The fox squirrel scampers up a tree to a branch so very high. The honking of the snow geese, flying high above in the moonlit sky. The scarecrow wobbles in the stiff wind, as its corn stalk arms begins to waver and bend. A small meadowlark, sitting on a barren fence post, constantly warns; "winter is coming…winter is coming!" He sounds so sad and forlorn. The frost is forming on the remaining dwarfed pumpkins in the deserted patch. Left to die like all living things must, so re-creation will occur or bust. The snow flakes large and distinct, begin to lazily fall, one at a time for a while, then millions make their mark, as a pure white mantel upon the frozen ground. Autumn is dead and Winter is here, and the snow will surely abound. Goodbye My Autumn...Goodbye! Jackie R. Kays © 06 Vote for this poem
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