The wind blows,
Silent and Still.
Tree’s shudder,
Under their will.
The cold air comes in,
Crisp and clean.
The clouds float over,
Dark and mean.
Animals hide,
In the shelter thats left.
But with all the leaves falling,
Bushes have shed.
No where to go,
To hide from the storm.
So they enjoy the moment,
And try to be warm.
They look at the leaves,
All yellowy-orange.
The bright shades of red,
Glimmering through the storm.
The sun shines in,
through the trees,
And the wind comes in,
Softly, you see.
With a faint whistle,
It blows the clouds stray.
And the fragrance of sight,
Never fades away.

This poem was written/submitted by Megan.