Autumn

The rose hips lay now upon barren thorn, their velvet draping gone-

and see the red breasted soldier sit, to trill the chill of dawn.

But mourn not now, the morn has come, and ere the golden light-

that dance among the hickory and sets the world aright.

The arrant leaves still fall anon, reveling in their dance-

their candy coated splendor show for those who spare a glance.

So hasten now to the spitting flames, around which we huddle tight-

while we spin some scary tales, to give the little ones a fright.

And oh the winds that whip up leaves and tussle up ones hair –

I would dwell always if I could, in my autumn fair.