Autumn has become translucent.
Winter presses its fingers onto the remaining fragments,
Condensing onto the clouds like her wet nose does on my glass.
Auburn leaves turn brown,
Their golden edges melt into the mud and their stems freeze,
My breath dances towards the clouds
Joining their mighty surround, dispersing at the sun’s command,
The trees are scraped bare by the sharp wind
Like a razor, the leaves cascade as blood.