I am summer born,
snow feels alien to me –
For trees maybe too?
I watch how bravely
they surrender to autumn,
bittersweet adieu.
November’s exposed,
bare branches sway in bitter
winds boding winter.
But gently it starts,
it sneaks up, surprises with
snowflakes so softly
painting such magic,
no more can I mourn leaves, or
the way I saw trees.

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Arrival © Susan L Hart 2026