Autumn,
And the majestic sycamore struggles to retain her splendor,
Battling the brisk northerner,
For possession of her motley garments.
Her struggle is futile, this she knows,
But she cannot surrender meekly.
Annually,
The seasonal battle rages for weeks,
Until she reluctantly relinquishes her treasures one by one.
Alone and naked to the world,
Exposed for all to see,
She is deprived of the beauty and the grandeur that was once her.
Finally,
Though nude and shy,
She delights in the tapestry she creates.
That carpets the moist soil beneath her stately trunk.
In dying she has shaped the beauty of Autumn,
A gift befitting the queen of the forest.
