11/5/23
Leaves dying,
Leaves drying,
Leaves filling my pipe.
I smoke as Fall creeps,
And Summer now sleeps,
The air makes this rhyming feel ripe.
It’s crisp, it’s cool,
Winters coming feels cruel,
But now there is no time to gripe.
This moment I cherish,
As trees around perish,
The branch awaits Spring with a hype.
I sit and I stare,
Smoke mingles with air,
More musing would only be tripe.
I hope and have tried,
From beauty I've eyed,
To convey this moment with type.
Copyright © 2023 by Travis Teague