Autumn
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A nine month rounded moon
peeks down through yellow leaves
Its silver fingers count the stacks
and rows of harvest sheaves.
September leaf-strewn streets
lie wet and shining. Mirrored clouds
appear above without a lining.
Umbrellas lost or bent in battle
fly away as shutters rattle.
Autumn comes with bellowing noise,
disrupting other seasons’ poise.
With voice that harbors such a shout
it drowns all other voices out.
Flannel shirt, woolen skirt
no match for winds that biting hurt.
Hoods and collars cover scowls
crows all echo Autumn howls.
Lips warmed with spicy drink
on pumpkin days that fade to ink.
Protesting hoots of Autumn owls
awakened by the farmers plows.
The Autumn child: never nature’s proudest;
but all agree, she is by far, the loudest.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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