Copyright Jim Willis 2001
A quilt is laid upon the world
of colors red and gold,
a sheet is placed of frosty white,
peace tucked in every fold.
The air is ripe with cinnamon,
woodsmoke and apples tart,
the golden fields of ripened grain,
their richness do impart.
A hunter stands, a shot rings out,
a fallen stag lies still,
Autumn's splendor melts away,
replaced by winter kill.
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