The final leaves are stripped away, <br />Streaming Westward, swept at play; <br />Birds sit on their barren perch <br />Like nervous widows prim at church. <br /> <br />My sky is now of tangled wires; <br />I see the churchyard steepled spire; <br />I burrow deeper in my nest, <br />Spilling ashes on my vest. <br /> <br />A cold wind blows and shakes the trees <br />Standing barren of their leaves; <br />It shakes the birds from off their perch, <br />It sends them Southward o'er the church; <br /> <br />I sit and watch the winter weather <br />Defeat the leaves and rustle feather; <br />I must sit and hibernate, <br />So I smoke my pipe and calmly wait.<br /><br />David McLansky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smoking-my-pipe-at-the-window/
