Go get the squab from out of the freeze, a feast fair,
as the golden leaves stir and fall in the autumn air.
Gold mouths cry in the trees, it is a Winter’s Eve affair.
Gone is the river, under ice it is a silent stream,

Winds whisper a final tune in the sun’s last gleam.
The forest sings no more once it sleeps in winter’s dream.
Once, a song in the golden afternoon of ease and care.
My sweet world was a memory then, held in high esteem,

Now grackles in black and blues, unlike a winter melon’s hue,
paint the sky in feathered wings in a twilight view,
as they migrate for the warmth of someplace new.
A symphony of colors, the warmth of a kaleidoscope,

in the embrace of nature, it exists as a boundless scope.
In the amber glow where dreams swell with hope.
The squab, a treasure of delight cooked just for you,
Ah, to escape the cold with you I might elope,

from this banquet, beneath the fading light, shy,
like golden leaves that fall to the frozen, like a sigh,
In the darkening evening, as time slips by.
Gone is the river, gone is the tranquil tale,

as grackles fly fast in the evening’s gale.
The last of autumn leaves fall as the winds begin to wail.
Let us embrace where memories, like smoke, wafting high.
My sweet world was a fugitive moment in time,

captured in verses, made timeless by a fleeting rhyme.
In the golden afternoon’s soft caress, a memory sublime,
The essence of beauty, until memories fail.
and all is lost except what was once mine.