I walk a path of yellow grass,

Sparse yellow blades of wrath,

Suffocated by faded leaves,

Drifting from the swaying trees,

But among the depigmented scene,

Are patches of emerald green,

Summer's strongest warriors still,

Battling against Autumn's chill,

Morale is low as daisies wither,

Blown by frigid winds that elicit shivers,

Sun begins to get cold feet,

He abandons them in the face of defeat,

The future is bleak, night lingers,

Elms get frost on their spindly fingers,

The grassy soldiers fight to survive,

Keeping their color though they've lost their pride,

They preapre for Winter's crystals with desperation and woe,

As their simple, foolish hope is muffled by the snow.