A cooling autumn breeze
laden with the perfume of fallen leaves
and forest earth;
an earth of crumbly black
that guards dame nature's hidden scheme.
Tiny squirrels scamper
thither and fro
the forest villain slowly plods
he wears his winter sleeping robe of cinnamon hue.
This is a time when gross delusion falls in sleep
anesthetized by autumn's chastening air
for there are few who really hear
this season's lyric song of quarter tones.
And like the wild berry bush that never cares
if anyone should taste its sumptuous fruit
or if it goes to seed
it is there for the patient and the unafraid.