How silently they tumble downAnd come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,Colors gleaming in the sun.
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the airTill all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.
(images from anthropologie)
(poem by ?)
