There is a certain spot within my soul
That craves an Autumn scene
Before the Earth runs cold,
And slippers Mother Nature
In a wealth of bunny dust.
A poet needs to sing of Spring,
Once, before his book is closed;
For all the best are lionized
In bounded works of rambling prose.
The fair thee wells of Summer love
Give pause to thoughts of unplanned change,
And roots an artist's pen to scribe
The depth and breath of untold pain.
For me, the orange, gold and red
Are buffers in a life that eases
Through the Autumn's righting days,
And brings to you a willing heart
That dances as the moonlight fades.