The woods soft beckon on these last few days
of Autumn, on the wane as chill sets in,
Umbrella canopy is gone, it could not stay,
We face our hopeless yearnings from within.
The brook once was a rivulet, a stream
that overflowed (in spring) its river bounds,
But Fall has swallowed dry, un-wet, ungreen,
by uncut leaves, while tiny critters ’round.
They perch, then scurry at the whistling sound
of north winds drawing nigh, a scrum to hurry,
Gather bounty, hide ‘neath post, in ground,
Found acorns, dropping in a hailstorm flurry.
Delicate petals, gold against the blue,
Leaves float sure to earth, in cycle true.
Written in response to Wordle #200, using the following prompted words: blue, post, hopeless, perched, petals, uncut, river, tiny, delicate, umbrella, yearning