Wes’s Life

As the autumn sun sets,
A monot­one chorus sings its song.
The orches­tra rest­lessly shuf­fles in the wind,
Shed­ding their instru­ments.
Squash yel­lows, burnt cop­pers, pump­kin oranges,
Seared apple reds and clay browns.
With each crisp leaf,
The piles grow taller,
The shad­ows grow longer.
Col­or­ful leaves begin to lose their color,
Giving way to an orange glow,
Cast by the har­vest moon.
The stars shine down through hole-​punched trees,
Reveal­ing cool ambers and solemn browns.
The moon’s tears lie on the ground,
Shed for the season to come.
For the only color will be white,
The only smell will be burn­ing wood,
And the instru­ments will no longer play.