White achromatic clad on the ground Comes the sharp falling oak leaves Loosed by a fierce changing wind Tossed like many spinning blades A rip saw dancing end over end Many rotating teeth all zig-zagging Bouncing airborne and back again Flipping left to right twisting right to left Tumbling tossing twirling slicing Touching cutting tearing to shreds Every inch of its once perfect surface
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Posted: Nov 2017
About this poem:
I am often marveled by the patterns left in the snow by the wind blown oak leaves.