Those brown,
Fallen,
Autumn leaves
Lie scattered
On the ground,
While those remaining
On Sugar Maple trees,
Flutter and dance
Through the morning wind.
As trees of old,
Turn to crimson and gold,
And
As we move
Towards the dark of winter,
The moons bright light
Will serve as a guide
As the days of autumn,
Grow shorter.
And
As an autumn mist,
An invisible fist,
Hovers over the faces
Of oceans and lakes,
We will only hear
Thunder in our ears
When in spring,
The giant awakes.