Your wonderful words,
Carried by an Autumn song.
Round, and crystal-clear.
Such is your Siren’s call that,
Even the trees are blushing.

Deciduous trees,
“Holding back” the howling wind,
Sadly, with each gust,
A pale yellow tragedy,
Falling towards the forest floor.

This forest knows us,
And the games we play below.
Empty oak branches,
No longer obscure the view.
Our laughter, pauses mid-sigh.

My goodness the trees!
How tall they grow together
With long winding roads
Leading to a friendly feast
Where apple pie is best pie

These tears freely fall
Like leaves on an autumn breeze
How fragile we are
With uncertain tomorrows
Paris Mon Coeur tend la main.