Conia’s Corner


On the ground.

They’re all

Coming down.


The oranges and reds

Land on my head.

Yellows as well,

Have already been felled.


Soon this green grass

Will all come to pass.

And a chilly crisp white,

Will sit day and night.


I’ll change out my clothes,

For some of those.

Which are thicker than thin,

Wool for cotton.


I know that the branches,

Will become snowily enchanted.

But I mourn these autumn days,

As they fall away.

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