Year’s End.

Apologies for another autumn poem, I really am trying to find another subject, honestly.

Autumn paints her mural

with a brush as soft as silk,

coaxing colours from her chart

to gild the fading year.

Paths of fallen glory

now guide the Winter’s steps,

catch the frosts which early

lie, and die beneath their tread.

© sweetwater 2021
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critique and comments welcome.
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Featheredwing

I don’t think you need to apologize, Autumn is a wonderful time of year and you’ve done it justice with this beautifully worded poem.
Featheredwing.

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