As the year grows old in the end of November <br />the birds are flying south. <br />The days grow shorter and I remember <br />how my lips get chapped on my mouth. <br /> <br />The flowers go to sleep for a winter’s nap. <br />The bees seem to hide somewhere. <br />The bark of the trees grow brittle and the sap <br />dries in the cold, cold air. <br /> <br />I think that autumn welcomes death <br />and welcomes it’s long sleep. <br />It gasps aloud as the roaring breath <br />of winter’s icicles weep. <br /> <br />But as she rests she bides her time <br />And thinks, “I shall be back.” <br />And when she returns I know that I’m <br />alright with the year end’s act.<br /><br />Edwina Reizer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-the-year-grows-old/
