When the leaves are turning red,
time is rife with parting words
as we say goodbye instead

Of hello to fleeting birds,
and the schooners out at sea.
Time is rife with parting words.

Hidden in the poetry,
of the gypsy butterflies
and the schooners out at sea.

Then return with stronger ties,
to the pattern in the wings
of the gypsy butterflies.

An imagination sings,
bland acoustics of an ode
to the pattern in the wings.

Branches creaking secret codes
when the leaves are turning red.
Bland acoustics of an ode
as we say goodbye instead.