The Man of the Red

In the cold autumnal day
The sun shines bright.
The wind blows softly
Through shedding trees
With not a cloud in the sky.
The rustling of leaves
Across sparsely covered earth
Whispers like a child
To the Man of the Red
As he sits, still waiting,
To hear those words
One longs to hear.
Against a stone upon the hill,
The Red Man sits
With eyes to the sky
And a hand to his chest,
Wishing, waiting,
For his love to return.

Inspiration strikes at shower time! Ugh...I wish I could add more to it, but I need to figure out how I would phrase it and stuff like that so I might rewrite it or something...maybe. I might make little tweaks later with small words if I feel like it.