Silver threads that weave among the brown,
Show the sign that summer's gone,
And the ruts left by the storms,
Seen in the furrowed frown.
Slower now the gait
that ran
When spring was here and spirit free
But it is now approaching winter:
This season sees the bent down tree.
Memories linger of
birds that left,
But seeing now, an empty nest.
Hearing still, the songs that rang,
Throughout the summer when life was best
When silver threads
have turned to white
And the final season has come too fast:
It is then envisioned, the hope of spring,
While sadly letting go, the seasons past.
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