the leaves have all but covered the ground below
leaving the trees a bare, gnarled mirror image of their roots
there is a coldness in the air that seeps under your skin
and crawls down your spine with icy fingers
before the breeze bears it away and stirs the leaves into a crackling tornado
dancing in the air like a dying fire
the sky above is a blanket of pearl grey
that does little to warm you and much to keep you ensnared in those invisible hands
and whose morose opacity belies the vibrancy of the leaves amongst your feet
but even they are losing their color to the season
slowly suffused by various shades of brown
painted by those chilled hands just the same as your skin is painted pale
save for the bright red of your cheeks and nose against the frigid air
perhaps this feels like an ending without a beginning to follow
yet winter will sparkle a brilliant white and emanate a comfort
which contrasts against its icy touch with a shock sent racing through your veins
where blood runs warm as a reminder that even in lifelessness lies the word life
and soon the snow will fade to greys reminiscent of the autumn sky
giving way to rays of sunshine which brush against the world like a whispering spark
because a phoenix must always rise from the ashes
before it can soar in its beauty.