Moss of plenty below my feet

The air is cold and fresh

With a blanket of clouds

Looming over my head

White and grey, leaving not a drop

The leaves that used to keep coming

Have reached to a stop

And all the trees are empty

Like a hanging mop,

Down the branches heave

Winter is approaching

Better get ready

For the icy white powder to pour out above the trees.

Sorry for the long wait. I am moving, so posting is getting harder. I have to schedule my posts to automatically for separate days, because my WiFi is going to turn off soon.