Your verses breathe autumn’s soul, weaving whispers where earth and sky conspire. In twilight’s breath, your tapestry of decay and dawn—may your echoes haunt with quiet grace.

The wind, a wanderer, doth stray,
Stirring secrets, night and day,
In whispers low, the trees confide,
Of summer’s end, and winter’s tide.

The grass, a carpet, soft and deep,
Conceals the whispers, in silent sleep,
But as the breeze, with gentle might,
Stirs the blades, the secrets take flight.

In this still place, where wild things roam,
The whispers weave a haunting home,
A symphony, of earth and sky,
A lullaby, as autumn says goodbye.