Trees, licked aflame, lined a lonely row
Wind from the north began to blow—cold.
With each pass, crimson leaves tipped
Flipped and fluttered, stripping bitter
Branches of Spring’s enamored oath.
Youth, hung among the low-lying limbs,
Emerged—ethereal—to pluck
Its precious plunder.
And there I stood—barefoot
In that lonely row,
Chasing Autumn’s final leaf
Despite my advancing foe.
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