The first snow is a white whisper
Soft, but unkind
Dropping, as it does
The curtain on summer’s blue and green
On autumn’s red and gold.
Erasing color, dimming light
And reminding us
Of an end that looks like it will never end.
The first flakes are only atoms
They tap against the brittle leaves
The blackoak has held against the season.
Their whisper rises and falls:
This is the beginning of the end.