The final leaves are stripped away,
Streaming Westward, swept at play;
Birds sit on their barren perch
Like nervous widows prim at church.
My sky is now of tangled wires;
I see the churchyard steepled spire;
I burrow deeper in my nest,
Spilling ashes on my vest.
A cold wind blows and shakes the trees
Standing barren of their leaves;
It shakes the birds from off their perch,
It sends them Southward o'er the church;
I sit and watch the winter weather
Defeat the leaves and rustle feather;
I must sit and hibernate,
So I smoke my pipe and calmly wait.
David McLansky
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smoking-my-pipe-at-the-window/
