The air is rich with autumn broth
as squirrels forsake fair weather sloth
and songs of summer scintillate
in every gold and purple swath
of flowers that cohabitate
with cattails and the syndicate
of brambles just begun to turn
from green to a more seasoned state
intractable enough to spurn
frigidity that's bound to burn
away the gift of younger years
as temperate climes adjourn
at least until the churning gears
ensure that springtime reappears
and makes the meadow sing again
the symphony that perseveres.
Are You Reading Me?
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