November 10, 2010
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They are odd,
Their very strange,
the months the trees,
are set ablaze,
to burn away,
the pleasent green,
of these delicate,
skinny leaves,
into brilliant colors,
ignite their flames,
red to orange
to yellow haze,
no warmth or light,
upon sun's decent,
a single flaw,
in it's magnificence.
Yet, fall loose,
scatter the ground,
little embers,
ashes of brown
till the flames,
dying free,
will all fall and shatter,
from unharmed trees,
not marked with burns,
or fallen ashes,
just left bare,
as autumn passes.

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