In The Fall

The nature’s cooks cook green, green dishes

To cool the eyes of the onlookers

Oh! they fulfil sugary wishes

Of their sweet mothers and brown brothers

After the bright and long sunny days

When days turn short and nights get colder

The mothers say, “Don’t cook as always

Or else darlings you’ll turn wearier.

Some cooks listen to their mother’s words.

Some still go on with cooking spree

They turn red and fall like plumeless birds.

This is the tale of many a tree.