There's a flutter on the breeze
that tells me it's fall.
It's that time of year
every rustled leaf is Death's call.
He lulls each tree into
it's special kind of sleep.
'Causes the wind to howl through the branches
instead staying still to weep.
But through all the revelry
it's time for reflections, deep.
Before it is winter
and is passed the days of reaping