Fleeting Color

A sonnet

Photo by William J Spirdione

Peak of autumn couldn’t be more fleeting.
Gathering wood for a chilly fall fire,
Lost in the wind, the seasons repeating,
The changing of colors has much to admire.

Lifting and stacking, carrying, hearing,
Clonk, clonk, with each piece of wood as its dropped,
Rising and falling, in pitch, in timing,
No time till winter, seasons won’t be stopped.

Sandpaper sound, of hands, rubbing for heat.
Hear the voices in the wind between trees,
Inhale one cold breath before work’s complete.
Open the door, smell warm, dry air, feel peace.

There is only fleeting color on leaves.
Enjoy nature’s tapestry that time weaves.