Cold hillsides draped in mist
irridescent sunlight playin on the edges of the clouds
frozen fields of grass
heralding the coming of Winter
quiet solitude to be missed
naked trees, next to their clothed brothers, awaiting Springtimes' dress.
Golden leaves not yet lost
promises to lose to the coming season of cold
leaving it's branches to await, with us, the miracle of warmth,
long forgotten Springtime.
til then
We wait
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