Placid autumn days, all appears benign,
but nature is churned up inside itself.
Watching the seasons there is no rhyme
nor reason to the changing patterns of the days.
Winters on its way, yet it seems as if we
are in springtime. Least ways gazing at
the sky the churned up emotions of nature
knows it should be sleeping, yet its flowering.
Days are short; the long dark nights are here.
Autumn, winter, spring, the churned up facets
of the seasons has caused a discord in natures timeline
the softness of the days displays its weary mind.
Only the falling leaves lying brown upon the ground
churned up and swept into mounds, lets nature
bow its flowering head in shame, as it accepts, that
the game of life ended, in the sullen nature of mankind.
