Autumn's Russet Leaves
Autumn's breeze teases the last russet leaves
clinging to branches with their golden fingers.
Seasonal change awakens Mother Nature's thieves,
a wildly wafting zephyr that doggedly lingers,
stripping trees bare; a scene that sadly grieves.
Fall sings its song in a rhythmic glissando voice
announcing that it's time that she takes the helm.
We acquiesce, for we're given no other choice.
She holds reign over Indian Summer's realm,
painting meadows, hills and vales as we rejoice.
Scattered acorns are gathered by hoarding squirrels
who scurry back and forth, hoarding the tasty jewels,
cherishing them as a lovely neck values pearls.
As the north winds blow, the temperature cools.
Chimney smoke drifts in white ribbons and curls.
It's finally time for harvesting ripe apples for pies.
Pumpkins and gourds will be positioned in display.
Carefully, we'll then watch Autumn's sullen skies
as clouds grow heavy, in shades of nimbus gray.
Geese will take to wing in migration. How time flies.
Colorfully, Autumn dresses herself in wrinkled gown.
Swirling in a ruffled skirt of crimson and spun gold.
Her bodice of ochre, trimmed in shades of brown.
A russet cloak she throws on when a chill takes hold,
woven from wizened leaves that have tumbled down.
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