Pretty as a Picture

A gust of wind and all the leaves fall down;
Another spurt but there is nothing left.
The naked trees are finally bereft
Of what was once a green and growing gown.
The smaller and less vigorously grown
Still cling to stubs of greenery and yet
They must permit the larger trees to set
Their wasted leaves upon them. Freshly thrown,
The dried and curling carpet will arise
With every whisper of the wind. So these,
That fell so statelily down from the trees,
Now reach in vain back up into the skies,
Only to fall, forever tumbling.
Behind their fall there's winter's rumbling.