Paintbox

Paintbox

Jack Frost let me tag along today.

The paintbrush flittered here and there.

It seemed quite effortless,

Touching every tree and bush

That caught our questioning eyes.

In the stately maple by the road

Crimson snared the topmost branches,

Pushing slowly down to a brighter red

Which faded past gold to a pure

Yellow, lighter and lighter

Until streaks of original green 

Peeked through, giving up in places

To russet and, just for a while, to

Brown leaves, clinging steadfast 

Until they flitter down

To finally rest upon the ground.

A patchwork quilt resting quietly 

Waiting for a deeper blanket of snow,

And, months from now, 

A renewed burst of green 

Below them, and in tiny buds

Above.