Seasons

The bloodless leaves lie stale in the chilled air,
the once bright faces carved with aged lines.
Their sightless eyes can now but blankly stare
at the proud sun who brightly, coldly shines.

It is as though a plague has swept the trees.
The casualties are mounting in the streets.
The pulsing wind, it breathes a shallow wheeze
the branches sway, a death knell slowly beats.

An icy vice will soon crush out the life,
and frost will paint a wasted countryside.
A frozen stasis, void of love or strife.
The spun-glass prison bars are thick and wide.

But death itself will die down to a grave.
Its bonds will melt a path for life to pave.