This was my answer to an in-class descriptive writing exercise.
It is late autumn. Withered leaves depart their year-long home, jubilantly dance in the air, and silently rest themselves on the ground, paving a golden road glistening under the bright red sun, surrounding the tranquil lake in a park filled with peace.
A lady in her eighties rambles across this golden road, with the help of her cane held in hand. Her forearm trembles with her walking stick when every step is made. The fallen leaves crack under her feet, moaning to the terminal of their brief life.
The wind breezes, lifting the leaves on the ground up in the air, while pulling more away from the dry and thin branches. The breeze also dishevels the old lady’s already ill-kempt silver hair; she shivers to the unexpected coldness, as does the slack wrinkled skin on her face.
She looks up, her brown eyes filled with fatigue. Her two lips are of light pink color. They open up, and close again. The lady tightens her dark blue long-sleeve, standing still as a sculpture.
The Helios loiters to the west, the sky darkening as it goes. The surface of the lake is now as golden as the roads covered with fallen leaves. The old lady is too tired to walk any more. She finds herself sitting on a park bench glowing with its newly painted bars. She closes her eyes, and breathes deeply to smell the fragrance of the sunset. She listens, enjoying the harmonious though sorrowful symphony of the wind and leaves.
She falls into sleep, with the ever bright sun fading away from the western sky.