On cold Ocotober mornings,
I would peer into woods,
To see an entanglement of somber oaks,
Concealed beneath crimson hoods,
Atop the canopy of scarlet leaves,
The sun did rise unseen,
No light could penetrate the forest's dark veil,
To illuminate the melancholy scene,
The trees, twisted and contorted,
Warped by bitter cold,
They scraped desperately at the sky,
Yearning for warmth to hold,
The sparrow, she did not dare to sing,
As silence resounds through empty spaces,
Between the dormant, lifeless oaks,
Within their body it laces,
As I stare at the barren land,
In the bleak scene I became engrossed,
As the woods did heave and release a sigh,
Mourning for summer's ghost.
~Eva Rosehill