• As I sit alone,
    the wind whispers to the tree,
    "why is she alone?"

    Not one reply came forward,
    instead the tree cried fire.

    Fallen leaves rested,
    Orange, red, but not the same,
    had left the ground burnt.

    "Falling or flying?" I asked,
    as the leaves brought me to sleep.

    So warm and humble,
    they rest with me on this bench,
    but they are not cold.

    They aren't cold for one reason,
    They have love from him within.

    Combusting with red,
    the leaves send the tree their love,
    And he knows it lasts.

    His bark is large and rugged,
    but he is mellow and soft.

    The fires fly off,
    and bid old father farewell,
    now alone he stands.

    With a burnt smile he perks,
    and the wind shakes his branches.

    She and I whisper,
    oh how her breath was so cold.
    Yet he sat so warm.

    His bark a personal coat,
    but his fire leaves were gone.

    Oh they aren't too far,
    right by his trunk they all lay,
    to keep roots alive.

    My autumn dearest season,
    What brought you to make leaves fly?

    You bore fire then,
    but you made them all fly high,
    you hate letting go.

    Years pass as he and I sit,
    No longer slightly alone.