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Leftover leaves
Crunch softly underfoot
As I wander to the creekside.
There
The sunshine warms my face,
Amplifying what fleece had
Already done.
Buds beckon from nearby branches
But I fear they
Are destined to wither
In a predicted freeze.
All four seasons seem
Rolled into a confused
Ripple that waves goodbye,
Jettisons across the
Waterfall and into the
Downstream rapids.
~ spontaneously composed by Stan Stewart
~ Copyright © 2016 by Stan Stewart and muz4now, inc. All Rights Reserved.
