Maybe a special day?

What shall I brew my life with, she wonders each passing night,

At each morning's wake, she asks, what would she want of it today
Merry memories, funny jokes, dark secrets or just a pretty sight?
And then she decides she will live today in yet another special way

She walks through the woods silently, in the November's cold wind
She watches the morning sun and the dance of red autumn leaves
And a grey squirrel nibbling a nut on the dislodged Sycamore rind,
She hears the blue birds sing sharp songs, and then quietly she leaves

Then she spots a little brown fawn, that looks in her eye astound,
through the dried blades of what were once the lilac blazing stars,
ruffles his leg through yellow leaves, revealing the soiled ground,
In her mind she paints this sight, in an impressionist style of Degas

Then she hears the wheezing weeds, as the wind roars its charm,
She watches the fawn prance by into the glorious yellow aspen fall
She leaves this sight humming a song, how beauty is soft and warm,
it beautifully is, just what it is, she thinks, and nothing more at all

At each morning's wake, she asks, what would she want of it today,
And bravely decides, she will zealously try to make it a special one,
And at each dusk's dawn she says, this was just another special day,
And over and over this repeats, like a jesting comrades for clocks run

Each day like today, she walk through the colors of the wood,
Each day like today, she admires the alluring sights that come by,
And each night those stars arching across a majestic dark hood,
beautiful it is, yet, each day she lives just to watch the time fly by

She slowly smiles as she pensively sits down, on the radiant leaf bed,
as she watches the sight of ravens glide gracefully in a dance of rave,
And she feels the howling gush and fleeing specks of yellow and red,
And then sees the autumn leaves flow and takes their lead to the grave