A Dying Year Revisited

Today was the first day it smelled like fall.
Of dry grass and leaves caught in the just cold air,
Where bare tree limbs seeped into the blue sky like ink,
And spoke with cracked voices in the wind.
They spoke of a dying year,
Of failed triumphs, witnessed at years end.
They spoke with that subtle calm, that last peace,
Before the long death of winter.
It seamed as if the world burned away in colour,
As the sunset on that last day.
One last fiery show before the white washed winter night,
Settled about the world like a shroud.