Chris Writing Anything

Overcast cool and dry

And the leaves look so plain

They continue to fall from the sky

Is this truly the November rain

Piles of drab, bland yellow

Clustered in our village streets

And every elderly fellow

Is blowing the leaves at his feet

This poem is kind of corny

But it Certainly is not thorny

Neither will it suddenly bore me

Or make me feel restless and stormy

But the yards are unseasonably green

The emerald lawns mockingly gleam

It’s well Into a late autumn scene

Signifying an unmistakeable in between

Summer time and the coming winter

Fall is the unavoidable splinter

Dark falls just before dinner

As Christmas lights start to glimmer