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The grass is dying as the frost comes;
Leaves slough off stark limbs,
Falling reluctantly to Earth's floor
To crown the blades that wither there
Before both are buried with newfound snows.
The sparrows have all long departed their nests,
Ponds lie abandoned of geese and ducks,
And the robin's warble sounds no more;
The grass is dying.
No bloom in the faded flowers,
No green in the patch-bare shrubs;
A lone squirrel scavenges its winter store,
Shivering beneath the chilled air
As the sun pales and lowers;
The grass is dying.
© 1997 by J. M. Pressley