Beneath the hush of amber trees,
the canals remember summer’s song.
Light drifts between the leaves,
where gold and water weave along.
Each ripple hums the hour’s end,
where silence blooms in burnished grace,
and every leaf that dares descend
becomes the sun’s reflected face.
No wind, no hurry, only flow,
the world exhaled in gentle gleam.
Autumn stoops to let us know:
we are the echo of its dream.
~ Morgan C. Morgan
Writer of light, shadow, and the stories between.
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