Originally posted on The Word Wranglers Writing Group 2002
Lithe and young, she softly sways,
Feeling the tempo of the breeze.
In fluttering silks of gaudy hues,
She dances for the trees.
Now faster, louder, wails the rising wind.
The willful wanton gyrates to the beat,
Flinging in wild abandon scarlet veils,
To lie in heaps of color at her feet.
Naked, she slowly shivers to a halt.
No accolades nor prophet’s head
Reward her Autumn dance,
Her only audience the somber firs
The feeble sun,
And me.