(Note: accompany with this song)
Falling of the Year
The ground is grey as goose-down,
And browning at the edges.
Earth washed clean in the wind,
Which lashes like a whip,
But even though cold is still welcome,
Like the other side of the pillow.
And the coarse branches of trees
(Dying on the outside
But never more alive),
Craggy and jutted at the sky,
Prodding fingers in the clouded ribs.
Swept-dirt path wends in the twilit field,
Here surrounded by waving wheat
You can take a breath
And smell the death of seasons,
The faulty and failing leaves
Bister and crumbling under your shoes.
And the flagrant wind is cavorting
And scrubbing out the heaviness of air,
Leaving only the sharp bare bones
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