A Graceful Bow

Like the spirit of a woman who turns to grey
She weaves loosely now through time
Allows the wind to change her path without question of where it ends
Her colors more vibrant with deepening shades as days pass on
Death be not on her mind for the sun still shines and the children full of play
Her wrinkles and musk chill the air yet her smile tells of celebration
With winter coming soon her spirit takes a bow
Much like this spirit, a season named Fall bows along side

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