Woodland Seasons

The sun trod a path through the woods,
As the wind whistled in the trees,
The clouds floated lazily,
And the flowers danced with the bees.

Now the leaves shiver as Autumn covers,
The wood in a cloak made of gold,
Yellows, oranges and reds,
Keeping out sunlight, making it cold.

The leaves fall, dead to the ground,
Bony hands of trees grasping for sun,
The bees have died as have the flowers,
Now that the warm summer is done.

The sun no longer treads his path in the woods,
As winter has descended so fast,
The only comfort the skeleton trees have,
Is that soon it will all be past.