I liked your last line quite a bit. Here's my move and poem:
Two
b5
In this yellow wood,
with its frost-lined path
and barren trees, hands reaching.
It is no longer the time
for green steps.
The leaves now sting
in wind-whipped spinning.
Can footsteps untrace
on a trail of dying blossoms?
Two
b5
In this yellow wood,
with its frost-lined path
and barren trees, hands reaching.
It is no longer the time
for green steps.
The leaves now sting
in wind-whipped spinning.
Can footsteps untrace
on a trail of dying blossoms?
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson