A low mist hangs, underneath the clouds, 
Leaves all falling in different colours, 
from their home above in the trees.

The last growth of flowers, 
The last remnant of spring, 
The last journey on the winds. 

Flecks of white like snow,
dancing through the air.
In hundreds, thousands, 
rising and floating to who knows where.

Look out your windows,
A gust will blow them here, 
A puff will send them there.

Gently, slowly carefully they carry on, serene. 
Everything as calm as it seems, 
In their dandelion dreams.