As the year grows old in the end of November br the birds are flying south. br The days grow shorter and I remember br how my lips get chapped on my mouth. br br The flowers go to sleep for a winter’s nap. br The bees seem to hide somewhere. br The bark of the trees grow brittle and the sap br dries in the cold, cold air. br br I think that autumn welcomes death br and welcomes it’s long sleep. br It gasps aloud as the roaring breath br of winter’s icicles weep. br br But as she rests she bides her time br And thinks, “I shall be back.” br And when she returns I know that I’m br alright with the year end’s act.