Walking through the forest On a winter's end I hear, The chirping of a robin The rustlings of a deer.
And down by the river I see The life of spring in bloom A young bud unravelling Though it is surely doomed.
For down by the banks I find Thousands of autumnal leaves Shrivled and cold, once full of life Floating dead, drifting in finality Is the fate of us all And all that is to be.
| My Profile
A Deviation Into What Might Be Called Poetry... blog
