The green sheds its pigment skin,

Bearing forth red-orange twin,

Dries until its brittle thin,

Waiting capture from therein.

A blast of wind shoots to the mark,

Rustling song just like a lark,

It dives through the bough's arc,

Loosens grip of rugged bark.

Leaves shiver from their perch,

Disturbed by puffs of air that lurch,

Fleeting foliage freed from birch,

Swirl to and fro in aimless search.

Caught up in the wind thereby,

Ephemeral leaves are floating by,

At midday, an evening sky,

Soaring through the air so high.

Until down, down, the leaves wound,

Laid to rest upon the ground,

More and more, maple colors mound,

Sprouts of summer are now drowned.