The tree’s reaching tangled arms stretching for a taste of the winter sun’s null gleaming. Recognizably maple even for lack of its feathery green foliage, it’s fallen leaves spread across the ground, collecting in corners and hollows waiting to be absorbed into the earth from whence their mother came.
The sky a dull pale memory of the summer’s azure hues, not a wisp of cloud to be seen. The sun hangs low to the south continuing its eternal dance with heavens and planet.
The husks of the gardens and weeds now one and the same in their dreary brown likeness. Both awaiting their peaceful irrelevance, as they crumble into the cold earth. To await the coming seasons when their fallen seed shall rise from their long forgotten corpse.