Blustery winds sway feeble boughs,
As wrinkled leaves kiss good-bye,
And plummets slowly by cold puffing murmurs,
Admist ornage and yellow,
Purple stones clump among vines,
That swirls and mazes the sickle trees,
Slowly picking luscious drops of fruit,
They slowly build as buckets fill and cramp,
Full and done, they squash and twirl,
Soon the flow of purple plashes,
Never ending flow of joy,
In a bottle dark,
It places itself on my shelf,
For joy can plunge itself outward dark.
