Scorn not October, you lovers of green.
Scarlet and orange are a celebration
That’s not so much of end but rest hard won
Leaves, drifting promise of snow through air keen
With touch of frost and woodsmoke, gently wean
Us from summer’s rank and verdant passion,
Bright signals of ageless changing fashion.
And yet, the sadness comes, not unforeseen.
We walk autumn’s path, our feet reluctant.
We’re loath to don the coats and hats that tell
Of end to carefree day and bright hot night.
Gone the raucous birdsongs once so constant.

In their place north winds begin their knell,
Coldly mocking earth’s promise to requite.