Souvenirs

A poem

It’s fall outside, of orange and red
there’s a chill on the air
winter’s biting at my front door
and I’ve plunged into despair

The sun is setting, the wind’s suspending
on the golden horizon
the leaves crunch to my ears
the colors are souvenirs
and they’re saying ‘come home son’

This is the life
this is the listening
of words we miss
of songs we’re singing

Tonight’s the night
winter’s finally here
accompanied by the flakes of white
it’s a new beginning, a new song we’re singing
that’s better than before