Autumn; the season of change,

where green trees dye their leaves warm shades.

Reds, ambers, browns and golds - a wide range!

All things old sliced off with silvering blades.

Youths, like autumnal leaves, have been displaced.

Some have moved out, have been blessed, graced.

Know that the willow trees do not weep or cry,

they merely bend down to seek their reflections in nearby water.

They just want to see how they have changed, 'by

the seasons it's true!

I've grown so green, and so have you!'

They yell to each-other, elated, ecstatic.

Telling themselves how they look fantastic.

Changing their colours for the cold yet to come,

that will kill most nature, and coat all in snow.

Cold for most but comforting for some.

Now the freezing winds do blow.

Oh, and the willows are misperceived as being riddled with melancholia,

while the autumnal skies are still warm, not yet white or magnolia.

So, come, don't be afraid.

Ride the wind to lands of change to evolve.

Let the past die and fade

while you morph and dissolve

all that is old.

To become new, bold.

Walk along with time

to your final form, sublime,

that rests in winter, still.

Shivering beside the mill.

∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

ద ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద 𖦊 ʊ

༒ ༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

ద ༒

༒ . ༒

༒ . . ᰔ

༒

༒