November

Autumn, dear she, liquid gold in her eyes
Always smelling of a sweet cinnamon surprise
She lived with such passion, it turned all the leaves
A dark wood saturated with reddening trees

She longed for cool sunshine and warm cider nights
With long afternoon drives to admire changing sights
But the cold and dark days were pressing in
Cutting off her only source of oxygen

And later, as months passed, did I see her slow death
As all the leaves, now brown, fell at her last breath
And I saw frost begin a slow gather, on her lips now blue
As Winter lays a snowy blanket over the someone that I knew