Winter’s Ball

There’s something so quiet about

rustling leaves.

 

Cold air caressing browns and yellows,

rusting greens.

The dead pages dance,

on each written tales of their youth.

But each wave of soft noise

carries with it a coming truth.

Of silence, of stillness, absence of sound, a vacuum,

but listen –

 

A timid wind-chime foretells a far off breeze.

 

Awakened leaves celebrate at least one more reprieve before

the coming freeze.

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