October

In the glen of the valley

Where the two lakes meet,

Lies a tree buried heavy

'Neath the freshly fallen leaves.

Leaves of yellow, gold, and red,

In the season of their prime,

Past the bloom of their youth,

In the shadows of the pine.

Oh, the stories that lie hidden

In the branches of the trees,

In the twilight of the evening

Midst the whispers of the breeze.

Where I walked these paths beside you

With our limbs and vines entwined,

Longing only to be closer

With your hands inside of mine.

When a tree falls in the forest,

They say not a sound is made.

For when there's none to hear it,

The cry is scattered in the shade.

But when my heart fell for you,

Such a thunderous sound it made,

That even the birds and the deer in the forest,

Who once hidden twixt the leaves

Would bear witness to it crashing,

Where the mighty tree one laid.