Days decide they want to sleep as the nights enjoy growing longevity.
Mist hovers above once pristine lawns that now wear a grey lush,
While the songs of crickets’ chorus falls to a hush
From underneath the thickset arborvitae.
With regards from Jack Frost who merrily skipped by
Dry leaves rustle, conjuring whirlwinds in my path;
Robin searches for a warm pool in which to take his last bath
And the stars look much colder in a crisp indigo sky.
Cackling crows caw from the second story.
Bountiful gardens begin to wilt and fade.
Man’s best friend no longer needs to seek comfort in the shade.
Only burnt orange pumpkins adorning doorsteps are in their glory.
Scampering squirrels can’t afford to take rest.
Ever gathering birds watch high on a wire.
Dense air fills me with some distant smoldering fire.
A spotty red rose left on the vine has lived past its best.
The trees whisper amongst themselves, and then pause briefly
As the wind raises her voice and says, “It’s time. It’s time.”
Rain falls on their leaves; drops drip off in hypnotic rhyme.
They put on brilliant turncoats, all worn so proudly.
What is this form of trickery, vividly persuading me life has been revived?
Gazing into the kaleidoscope of the ever changing landscape,
In this moment I don’t want to escape!
The change has come; for autumn has arrived.
By Susan Burd © 2008