Estimated Reading Time <1 Minutes
Every poet sings of Spring,
But I am awed by Autumn.
Leaves dance, swirling flashing
To tunes carried on cool brisk air.
Brittle bursts of fiery red and gold
Forstall the sleep of snowy blankets,
And the year holds its bated breath.
Nostalgia nods its invisible head.
Memories mull in the mind like cider.
Reflections ripple in waves and break
Into understanding and contentment.
Friends and family cram together
Like living cornucopias in small houses.
Literal and metaphysical fruit ripens
And is gathered for fuel against
The cold waiting winter that approaches.
