Aristotle's Artless Autumn Poem by Christine K. Trease

Artless autumn leaves now fallen lifeless on the ground
have reached the end of summer's journey intricately found
as a multicolored blanket, blown by fall's frail breath;
the forest's fragile overlay has now met with death.

Aristotle's burden joined with nature's philosophy
has fallen from lone empowerment atop the tallest tree.
Veining winsome winter words uttered in remorse,
have willed the vegetation's fall on a steady downward course.

Pythagoras' calculations could not save the leaves,
the fronting cold devoured them like sticky fingered thieves.
As utter-less as Socrates, the treetops' speechless words
have beckoned in the winter and uprooted all the birds.

This purer pulse of winter's stiffness nipping at our heels,
runs a slower course of time, unheeding our appeals.