The Winter Flower

The golden hue of ringing of leafy bells- so yellow and orange as the dawning sun- sings a mellow whispering tune that swells in the air of the thickest wind who sung. The air of mist bows to the ground- and morning fog seeps up to the mourning tree. Mysterious to the depth of the roots who sleeps just down the trunk of the sturdy crooked tree. And so it gently slopes in a mourning tune just over the decaying flower covered in a winter coat- just as the colors of Antlantic sun set. And off the limbs of branches the leaves gently float unto the moral flower as a blanket to an eternal rest.