Naive Autumn
The summer specter like wild parrots squawked,
in piercing jade abandon did it fly.
Through rampant trees of emerald we stalked
the sun's medallion in a cyan sky,
while ginger cobblestones the path did make
of fallen leaves in late September's scope,
the sheen of amber sparks from which we'd rake
the kiss of maples in our sleeveless hope.
In bronze delicious fire we'd ever cling;
December's frozen heart was but a ruse,
sweet cider fountains would each morning bring
us china cups of burning golden hues.
To marigold horizons did we dream
as unseen alders bled their crimson screams.
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