Leaves still green on many trees;
a few have fallen to a golden ground.
Gusts toss colors to the breeze;
feather light, they fall without a sound.
I dream that spring outside lurks, not
icy winter winds that hound.
So welcome then the season’s change.
Imagine how many there have been,
each, with colored mysteries strange
and each one new, my friend.
Is this spinning globe’s clock ticking
closer, some unimagined end?
Can’t help but wonder if its mine
I hear whispering in the wind.