The center of the woods,
Is illuminated, with streaks of light,
From the rays of the orange sun,
Falling in the west, out of sight.
There is a chill in the air,
As we approach the middle,
Of October, on a Saturday,
Winter is approaching, Summer will leave,
Only memories of those warmer days.
The branches & trunks,
Many different species of trees,
Will soon start to hibernate,
From the effects of the colder breeze,
Then they will slowly, one by one,
Release all of their leaves.
My favorite place to view and write,
Looking out my window,
Mother nature, is all I can see.
The original Tom Maxwell/ poems 10/12/2019
Philosopher - Polymath
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:02 AM UTC
The center of the woods,
Is illuminated, with streaks of light,
From the rays of the orange sun,
Falling in the west, out of sight.
There is a chill in the air,
As we approach the middle,
Of October, on a Saturday,
Winter is approaching, Summer will leave,
Only memories of those warmer days.
The branches & trunks,
Many different species of trees,
Will soon start to hibernate,
From the effects of the colder breeze,
Then they will slowly, one by one,
Release all of their leaves.
My favorite place to view and write,
Looking out my window,
Mother nature, is all I can see.
The original Tom Maxwell/ poems 10/12/2019
Philosopher - Polymath
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