When leaves of trees have had too much of sun,
The green deserts them, and their colors run.
The hidden purples, reds and orange hues,
The yellows with a hint of old chartreuse,
All branch forth in their glorious display,
Until they start to brown, and fall away.
In autumn rain they drift down from the sky,
And add their stain to ponds and creeks thereby.

And as the leaves imbue the lake with brown,
I place a teabag in my cup and frown.
The water boils and the mixture steeps,
And fallen moods do gather in the deeps.
I let the bitter colors merge to black,
Then shrug and smile as I knock it back.