Winter Comes

The frost bears down on beaten leaves,
scattered remnants of autumn's finale.
Now they lay on sodden fields,
lifeless memories,
winter comes.

A color of decay fills the air as sounds die,
fading in the morning mist.
On solitary fields has only one felt the
chill as it speaks, a voice upon the winds
whispering, "winter comes."

Gray skies and the stillness set in,
reaching out as the coldness touch.
We are tucked in for the long sleep,
under blankets of snow winter creeps,
the winds howl,
"winter comes."

©ScottlB