Through the window of my mind
I watch autumn as she lightly sneaks
up on the unsuspecting world;
she wraps her gold-and-scarlet shawl
about her rounded shoulders
and whispers a faint lullaby
to the wilting green.
She tiptoes through the woods
and runs through the meadows
and creeps along paved and tree-lined boulevards
shedding a restless disquiet in her wake
like softly falling leaves.
Listen! still your inner chatter
and you will hear her subtle call:
the summer’s over; winter is not yet—
the time for change is now;
the in-between time,
Dance! this year is dying,
and the next is not yet born.
This is the time of change.
Autumn in Twin Rivers
The chilling breeze of autumn mornings
Lays icy hands upon the face
Of trees and grass; the subtle warnings
Of nearing winter rise with grace.
The golden beams of streaming sunshine
Now somehow fail to lift the cold
While streaming weakly through the tree line,
Their chilly light no longer bold.
The cries of birds now pierce the stillness
Of cloudless, gentle blue-tinged skies,
As though the Old Year in its illness
Speaks one more time before it dies.
The silver glory of the water,
Now radiant in the sunshine bright,
Is bathed in mist; from Northern quarter
The strengthening wind dispels the night.
The apparitions and the shadows
Of faerie folk of days gone by
Dance sadly in the wilting meadows,
The Old Year mourning as they cry.
The shadows whisper in the wilting meadows
As summer’s splendor slowly fades away.
The flowers have fallen; fruits now fill the branches
That sway and nod as night replaces day.
Off in the distance, with a quiet thunder
The river leaps and bounces on the stones
That rest serenely ‘neath the speckled birches:
Gold crowning silver, calm and still as bones.
See how these watchers bend above the water,
As lithe and graceful as a maid’s first youth;
They study their reflections in the river
And wonder if they ever see the truth.
The woods are silent; nothing stirs the clearings:
The birds have left for softer, gentler climes
In streaming flocks. The forest seems neglected
‘Till they return in warmer, kinder times.
Now silence reigns; the wind has ceased its whistling,
Deciding that it spends its song for naught.
The forest softly sleeps, and waits to waken;
‘Till then it rests in tranquil dream and thought.
The falling of leaves
Is the end of all my hopes.
Another year dies.
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