Fall

A Song Of Autumn

‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year?’
‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer
On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,
When they drift through the dead-wood drear?
Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,
You may gather again, my dear—
But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go
At the falling of the year.’

By Adam Lindsay Gordon

***

Autumn

Thou tomb of summer
Vaulting its great might
Threshold of frosty weather
Into view of end a bite

Painting of nature
Earth’s view enchanted
Thou leaf of Transition
Root of death’s bed

Dilapidated souls- crunchy leaves
Picturesque of thy might
Dancing flames of fire
Singing death even bright

Red, Gold, Orange and green
Rainbow fall foliage
And pumpkins of corn fields
So drowsy a gaze

Thou dirge of the dying year
In whose charm dance scarecrows
Ripe nuts brown shake and fall
Mesmerizing thou pose

Thou leaf bright and dark
Barrier of youth and age
Piercing trumpet of winter
Truly the trick of the mage

By Miteshwar Singh

***

Autumn

The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

By John Clare

***

AUTUMN

There is a wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o’er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.

By Walter de la Mare

***

Autumn

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer’s stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.

I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners’ drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.

It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? — It was summer yesterday; now it’s autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.

By Charles Baudelaire

***

Autumn Abstraction

I walk alone in these windy streets
dead leaves sweep across my sneakers
disappear into the hue of pumpkin and wheat
my skin reveals the heat is getting weaker
welcome goose bumps for the second time
small sparks that trigger gloom
sun come back , don’t commit this crime
the sting of a quick transition looms
but I can’t help it when I look around
and vanilla skies reach out like wings of a dove
and small pieces of nature cover the ground
what it all reminds me of

the veins of a maple leaf reaching out
hugs that tell me all I need to know
rain the falls without a doubt
crying for me , when all my happiness goes
winds carry leaves away
keeping me and trouble far apart
falling into fall in this day
reminds me how you have my heart

my destination isn’t quite clear
bitter feelings all subside
lost in the sounds of what I hear
wind, autumn’s lovely bride
walking forever in a season
the sun has come and left
I don’t really know the reason
but I no longer feel bereft
white flakes will come after this is done
I’ve left behind sun yellow and sky blue
still this season is the only one
that will always remind me of you

By Raven Baptiste Holder

***

Autumn Birds

The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,
And heron slow as if it might be caught.
The flopping crows on weary wings go by
And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.
The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,
And darken like a clod the evening sky.
The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,
Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.

By John Clare

***

Autumn Bound

The boy caught in a dizziness of leaves,
Flinches as colors fall from wind-clogged eaves
Shouts as their shadows race across his sleeves.

Runaway brightness dances with the air..
The child claps for their freedom unaware
Their ride for sky has stripped the landscape bare.

someone who speaks leaf language should explain
Trees have no power to take them back again,
For beauty blinds young eyes to dark and rain.

The boy turns merrily around and round
Heedless of helpless whispers from the ground.
He does not know some things are autumn bound.

Empty tree shapes blowing upon the hill,
Sing him no hint of the November chill.
Because for him, time never has stood still.

By Sandra Fowler

***

Autumn Daybreak

Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

***

Autumn Finale

Spare no lament for the maple leaves
that, defying their impending fall,
play blazing gold and scarlet concerts
bright as Christmas brass in marble halls.

How bold their radiant finales resound
deaf to the sweatered ones below
sweeping death away
with their treble scraping rakes –
raising smoldering pyres of the fallen.

Steamy plumes from cocoa mugs
blend with burning oak and maple wisps.
The rakers chant their own sweet airs,
“The colors surprised this year,
didn’t think we’d had the rain.”

So spare no lament for the maple leaves
who with jubilant anthems
raised beneath the harvest moon
herald their fall with rainbow alleluias.

By Robert Charles Howard

***

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens
   And all up in the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
   See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over, 
   And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
   The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
   Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
   Fires in the fall! 

By Robert Louis Stevenson

***

Autumn Leaves

Golden, crisp leaves falling softly from almost bare trees,
Lifting and falling in a hushed gentle breeze.
Slowly dropping to the soft cushioned ground,
Whispering and rustling a soothing sound.

Coppers, golds, and rusted tones,
Mother Nature’s way of letting go.
They fall and gather one by one,
Autumn is here, summer has gone.

Crunching as I walk through their warm, fiery glow,
Nature’s carpet rich and pure that again shall grow.
To protect and shield its majestic tree,
Standing tall and strong for the world to see.

They rise and fall in the cool, crisp air.
It’s a time of change in this world we share,
Nature’s importance reflecting our own lives,
Letting go of our fears and again, too, we shall thrive.

By  Edel T. Copeland 

***

Autumn Poem

Autumn mornings,
Foggy and wet;
Dewy grass –
With diamonds beset.

Autumn leaves,
Yellow and brown;
Dancing and swirling –
Before falling down.

Autumn leaves,
On the ground;
Crackle and crunch –
A wonderful sound.

Autumn walks,
Exploring the woods;
Jumping in puddles –
With rubber boots.

Autumn pumpkins,
Round and heavy;
Carving a face –
We’re Halloween-ready.

Autumn nights,
My feet in fuzzy socks;
A cup of hot cocoa –
Autumn rocks!

By Bettina Van Vaerenbergh

***

Autumn Song

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the heart feels a languid grief

Laid on it for a covering,

And how sleep seems a goodly thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain

Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf

Knowest thou not? and how the chief

Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,

And how death seems a comely thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

By DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

***

Autumn Song

Now’s the time when children’s noses
All become as red as roses
And the colour of their faces
Makes me think of orchard places
Where the juicy apples grow,
And tomatoes in a row.

And to-day the hardened sinner
Never could be late for dinner,
But will jump up to the table
Just as soon as he is able,
Ask for three times hot roast mutton–
Oh! the shocking little glutton.

Come then, find your ball and racket,
Pop into your winter jacket,
With the lovely bear-skin lining.
While the sun is brightly shining,
Let us run and play together
And just love the autumn weather.

By Katherine Mansfield

***

Autumn Storm By Firelight

A flash of lightning streaks across the sky.
We huddle close beneath the trembling eaves
As thunder roars a nightmare lullaby
And strips the trees outside of summer leaves.

The fire is warm. Its light is warmer still.
A gentle beacon holding back the dark.
Yet, in the light of day, we know we will
Deny the fearful pounding of our hearts.

The ancient wonder once again is near.
The fury of the storm awakes our past.
When gods and nature both were to be feared
And spells of warding were by fire cast.

An autumn storm returns us to that place
When nature’s glory awed the human race.

By Katherine Marek

***

Autumn Within

It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.

Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.

There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves,
Comes no murmur from the mill.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

***

Autumn’s Changing Shades

The wind swirls leaves in all directions,
Tumbling them down upon this earth,
Releasing them from their connections,
To inhabit yet another berth.

Layers of them are now descending,
Carpeting the land’s cold ground,
Colours meticulously blending,
Burnished copper spread around.

All in their distinct formations,
Each with different hues to see,
Parading now in damp locations,
Drifters off upon a spree.

Autumn’s changing shades are warming,
Embroidering a patchwork quilt
Across the open plains transforming,
Embellishing with golden gilt.

The wind swirls leaves in all directions,
Tumbling them down in gentle flight,
Trees then watch for a resurrection
Of the spring’s fresh appetite.

By Ernestine Northover

***

Autumn’s Cry

Wild winds whistle through Autumn’s rustling leaves,
Trees of gold like amber flames sway softly with the rising breeze,
The cool crisp air of Autumn in the stillness of darkening skies,
Tender leaves fall gently, reflecting the tears of Autumn’s cry.

The warming glow from a summer sun fades in September skies,
Sorrowful clouds of greyish blue, a display of Mother Nature’s solemn goodbye,
Whimsical leaves of dark red crimson, once vibrant with the richness of life,
Delicate and circling from high above, a powerful performance of Autumnal delight.

A solitary bird soars high above, conquering winds in twilight clouds.
The haunting howl of Autumn’s wail, whistling her ghoulish bemoaning sound,
As the darkness of night begins to fall, in the midst of a harvest moon,
A remorseful ripening of rituals, as the tightening grip of Autumn looms.

In the season of change and maturity, falling leaves begin to decay,
The cycle of nature within the circle of life, Mother Earth will usher the way,
As the withering bare trees stand lonesome in the shadows of silent fears,
The ravishing roars from a raucous wind extinguish the light from Autumn’s lost tears.

By Edel T. Copeland

***

Autumn’s Glow

There is something about autumn
That brings out such earthiness
Gold leaves adorn bushes and trees
Like an artist with a brilliant brush

Once the leaves dry on the trees
Then the wind begins to blow
It’s a special time of year for me
Because I love autumn so

The cold dry air it seems
Prepare the leaves to fall
Mother Nature’s special time
Yes, it’s the best of all

What a dazzling way to end
The year as winter nears
The way leaves let loose
And dropp like nature’s tears

Oh yes, I love those golden days
Dreamy with autumn’s glow
It makes me smile because I do
Love the season of autumn so!

By Marilyn Lott

***

Autumn’s Majesty

Sun with his artistic touch,
streaks skies of blue with rosy blush,
trimming Oak and Maple too,
crimson reds with yellow hue.

Birch and Hemlock, purple and gold,
apples, pumpkins bright and bold,
burns by day and cools by night,
cloaking trees in fiery might.

Wispy winds and tumbling leaves,
cypress scents within the breeze,
starry eves and harvest moon,
sets the stage for crickets’ tune.

As spiders spin their tapestry
and crickets sing in symphony,
their final song of destiny,
it’s clear for all the world to see,
Autumn’s vibrant majesty!

By Patricia L. Cisco 

***

Dolor Of Autumn

The acrid scents of autumn,
Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear
Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn
And the snore of the night in my ear.

For suddenly, flush-fallen,
All my life, in a rush
Of shedding away, has left me
Naked, exposed on the bush.

I, on the bush of the globe,
Like a newly-naked berry, shrink
Disclosed: but I also am prowling
As well in the scents that slink

Abroad: I in this naked berry
Of flesh that stands dismayed on the bush;
And I in the stealthy, brindled odours
Prowling about the lush

And acrid night of autumn;
My soul, along with the rout,
Rank and treacherous, prowling,
Disseminated out.

For the night, with a great breath intaken,
Has taken my spirit outside
Me, till I reel with disseminated consciousness,
Like a man who has died.

At the same time I stand exposed
Here on the bush of the globe,
A newly-naked berry of flesh
For the stars to probe.

By David Herbert Lawrence

***

Emigre In Autumn

Walking down the garden path
From the house you do not own,
Once again you think of how
Cool the autumns were at home.
Dressed as if you had just left
The courtyard of the summer palace,
Walk the boundaries of the park,
Count the steps you take each day –
Miles that span no distances,
Journeys in sunlight toward the dark.

Sit and watch the daylight play
Idly on the tops of leaves
Glistening overhead in autumn’s
Absolute dominion.
Nothing lost by you excels
These empires of sunlight.
But even here the subtle breeze
Plots with underlying shadows.
One gust of wind and suddenly
The sun is falling from the trees.

By Dana Gioia

***

Four Seasons

The leaves fall as a call to autumn.
The harvest ends and early snow comes.
The moon comes up, bringing the night as
Time rushes forward in hopes of sleep.

The whole earth slows, as winter approaches with
The warm embraces replaced by wind.
The trees turn from red to black.
Time waits for none on its way to bed.

The song of birds begins to fade.
The whispering breeze becomes a lion’s cry.
The white lands we shall soon see.
Time waits for winter’s passage now, the last season.

The year ends and the snow fall slowly.
The cherry blossoms flower in a wonder of spring.
The sky’s children become rain instead of snow.
Time has awakened once more.

The rain begins to melt, the spring of life evolves.
The lion of March exits the calendar as a lamb.
The last three months crescendo into the heat.
Time surges forward an hour of daylight.

The sun pelts the earth with a ray of light which
The children leave school to play in during summer.
The flora is bountiful in its presence.
Time begins speeding faster and faster.

The animals wander out in the world.
The last month of summer signals the return to an old friend
The last plant bears fruit.
Time begins to slowly calm down and fall in pace.

The final three month rotation has begun.
The burning sun cools away into a soft caressing star.
The end of twelve months has come in autumn.
Time has completed one full year.

By Kevin Wong

***

It’s September

It’s September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold,
And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning’s sharp with cold;
Now the garden’s at its gayest with the salvia blazing red
And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed;
Once again in shoes and stockings are the children’s little feet,
And the dog now does his snoozing on the bright side of the street.

It’s September, and the cornstalks are as high as they will go,
And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere begin to show;
Now the supper’s scarcely over ere the darkness settles down
And the moon looms big and yellow at the edges of the town;
Oh, it’s good to see the children, when their little prayers are said,
Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed.

It’s September, and a calmness and a sweetness seem to fall
Over everything that’s living, just as though it hears the call
Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow,
In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though
Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very best
When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops away to rest.

It’s September! It’s the fullness and the ripeness of the year;
All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near,
But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows,
For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows.
And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile
When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile.

By Edgar Guest 

***

Late Autumn

October – and the skies are cool and gray
O’er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.
The dignity of woods in rich decay
Accords full well with this majestic grief
That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,
Whose afternoon is hush’d, and wintry brief
Only a robin sings from any spray.

And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills
White mist around the hollows of the hills,
Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees
His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees,
Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills
His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.

By William Allingham

***

Love In Autumn

I sought among the drifting leaves,
The golden leaves that once were green,
To see if Love were hiding there
And peeping out between.

For thro’ the silver showers of May
And thro’ the summer’s heavy heat,
In vain I sought his golden head
And light, fast-flying feet.

Perhaps when all the world is bare
And cruel winter holds the land,
The Love that finds no place to hide
Will run and catch my hand.

I shall not care to have him then,
I shall be bitter and a-cold —
It grows too late for frolicking
When all the world is old.

Then little hiding Love, come forth,
Come forth before the autumn goes,
And let us seek thro’ ruined paths
The garden’s last red rose.

By Sara Teasdale

***

My Autumn Leaves

I watch the woods for deer as if I’m armed.

I watch the woods for deer who never come.

I know the hes and shes in autumn

rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen

apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work

so I may let the crows in corn believe

it’s me their caws are meant to warn,

and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves

they know me too. They know the boy

who lives inside me still won’t go away.

The deer are ghosts who slip between the light

through trees, so you may only hear the snap

of branches in the thicket beyond hope.

I watch the woods for deer, as if I’m armed.

By BRUCE WEIGL

***

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

By Robert Frost 

***

October

Here it comes,
the month of October,
a quiet season for some,
yet it doesn’t leave us somber.

The cool breeze sweeps away
the pain of longing.
It makes my heart sway
and leaves my mind tingling.

The muddy brown ground
the yellowing leaves
all lets me peep around
the antiquity of our lives.

And here at last
my heart feels full.
Only October can cast
my soul blissful.

By JUPITER LANCLOVE

***

Once Upon An Autumn Day

Once Upon an autumn day,
Colorful leaves began to fade
In the midst of a chilly, frosty air
As multitude of trees grew steadily bare.

Once upon an autumn day,
The whispering breeze was here to stay
Moving aimlessly through the countless trees
Scattering leaves with the greatest of ease.

Once upon an autumn day,
The leaves whirled freely in every way,
Until at last they came to rest
Finding a haven in which to nest.

Once upon an autumn day,
The trees were dormant, and the leaves lay
Waiting for the winter snow to fall
To quickly obscure them one and all.

By Joseph T. Renaldi

***

Pleasant Sounds

The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods and under
      hedges;
The crumpling of cat-ice and snow down wood-rides,
      narrow lanes and every street causeway;
Rustling through a wood or rather rushing, while the wind
      halloos in the oak-toop like thunder;
The rustle of birds’ wings startled from their nests or flying
      unseen into the bushes;
The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as
      crows, puddocks, buzzards;
The trample of robins and woodlarks on the brown leaves.
      and the patter of squirrels on the green moss;
The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on 
       the hazel branches as they fall from ripeness;
The flirt of the groundlark’s wing from the stubbles –
       how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings, when the
dew flashes from its brown feathers.

By John Clare

***

Portrait Of Fall

Looking out my window
In October’s golden light,
I see a beauty unsurpassed,
A truly lovely sight.

Leaves are saying soft good-byes
As they come floating down
To make a nature’s carpet
Of yellow, red, and brown.

Mountain tops, now turned to white,
Forewarn of winter chills,
While trees, like golden rivers,
Wind their way up through the hills.

Throughout our world’s creation
You will ever find it thus,
Kaleidoscopes of color,
In God’s hand, the artist’s brush.

By Alora M. Knight

***

September Tomatoes

The whiskey stink of rot has settled

in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises

when I touch the dying tomato plants.

Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms

flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots

and toss them in the compost.

It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready

to let go of summer so easily. To destroy

what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.

Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.

My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village

as they pulled the flax. Songs so old

and so tied to the season that the very sound

seemed to turn the weather.

By KARINA BOROWICZ

***

Sing To Me, Autumn

Sing to me, Autumn, with the rustle of your leaves.
Breathe on me your spicy scents that flow within your breeze.

Dance with me, Autumn, your waltz that bends the boughs of trees.
Now tell me all the secrets you’ve whispered to the seas.

Sleep with me, Autumn, beneath your starlit skies.
Let your yellow harvest moon shimmer in our eyes.

Kiss me, Autumn, with your enchanting spellbound ways
That changes all you touch into crimson golden days.

Love me, Autumn, and behold this love so true
That I’ll be waiting faithfully each year to be with you.

By Patricia L. Cisco

***

The Beautiful Changes

One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides   

The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like lilies

On water; it glides

So from the walker, it turns

Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you   

Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes.

The beautiful changes as a forest is changed   

By a chameleon’s tuning his skin to it;   

As a mantis, arranged

On a green leaf, grows

Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves   

Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.

Your hands hold roses always in a way that says   

They are not only yours; the beautiful changes   

In such kind ways,   

Wishing ever to sunder

Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose   

For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

By RICHARD WILBUR

***

The Deep Blue Says It’s Autumn

The deep blue says it is autumn.
The sky is never this color
Except for days of cool, clear breeze
And leaves falling one on another.

The gold leaves say the year is ending
In its wild-hued conflagration.
The gentle season of harvest time
And happy fall celebration.

The orange says Halloween’s nearing
And Thanksgiving’s not far behind.
The heat of the summer is waning fast,
And a peace fills my heart and mind.

The colors of fall are all calling,
And my heart hears their song so clear.
Gray wintertime waits, but let’s all celebrate
The brilliance of this time of year!

By Rick W. Cotton

***

The Fall

The abundant, redundant season. 
Ushering in the winter, like an appetizer before the big meal.
Just a taste of what is to come. 
Beautiful and temporary.

Leaves dying, revealing their true selves.
Falling, soft at first, then dry and fragile.
Beautiful and temporary.

Temperatures falling, days shortening,
Sunshine fading, slowly, readying the whole world for rest.
Beautiful and temporary.

By Marla Wardell

***

The Last Leaf On The Tree

The last leaf on the tree, that’s me.
Yes, look up high, that’s me.
All my friends have been blown down.
They’re waiting for me on the ground.

I started in the summer a lovely green.
But way up here I could not be seen.
Now in autumn I’m a lovely brown.
I feel like the only leaf around.

The wind and rain have tried their best.
Yet I’m not quite ready to join the rest.
Even Jack Frost tried little me to freeze.
Tough old me will not be brought to my knees.

Some lovely snow that fell at night
Made me heavy and gave me a fright.
Nature will soon make a call.
Soon I know I must make the fall.

So maybe tomorrow I’ll make a leap,
And will all my friends on the ground I shall sleep.

By David A. Berwick

***

The Magic In The Moment

The wind began to blow
And shook the trees
Heads turned up in unison
Witnessing a season of change

The leaves were freed from their branches
Floating and swinging through the air
Painting the sky with golden colors
Dancing their way to the ground

The wind blew again
And the trees shook
Whispers in the wind:
“It’s good luck to catch a leaf!”

Searching and turning
Arms opening wide
Hands held high
Watching the leaves dance in the sky

They swirled, turned and swept me
Off my feet
Dodging and scooping
The magic in the moment

By Danielle Spencer

***

There Is Nowhere I’d Rather Be

There is nowhere I’d rather be
Than here, underneath this tree.
The moon high above to see,
A campfire just out in front of me.

Whispers in the wind are heard all around.
Trills, chirps, croaks and a bark abound.
A distant car on gravel makes a new sound.
An acorn falls through the leaves and hits the ground.

The air has cooled to my delight.
A touch of fall is felt tonight.
Summer’s grip is not as tight.
The season will change without much fight.

A cloud has covered the moon in the sky.
The fire has dwindled and about to die.
Knowing I have to get up, I let out a sigh.
It was great to be out here for this guy.

By Edward J. Dunn

***

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

   Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

   Steady thy laden head across a brook;

   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

   Among the river sallows, borne aloft

      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

By JOHN KEATS

***

Underwater Autumn

Now the summer perch flips twice and glides
a lateral fathom at the first cold rain,
the surface near to silver from a frosty hill.
Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail.

Nervously the trout (his stream-toned heart
locked in the lake, his poise and nerve disgraced)
above the stirring catfish, curves in bluegill dreams
and curves beyond the sudden thrust of bass.

Surface calm and calm act mask the detonating fear,
the moving crayfish claw, the stare
of sunfish hovering above the cloud-stained sand,
a sucker nudging cans, the grinning maskinonge.

How do carp resolve the eel and terror here?
They face so many times this brown-ribbed fall of leaves
predicting weather foreign as a shark or prawn
and floating still above them in the paling sun.

By Richard Hugo

***

What A Difference A Day Makes

What a difference a day makes,
twenty-four little hours.

Cool chill in the air,
slight frost on the flowers.

Through tattered fields of corn,
crows caw in the early morn.

Songs of crickets linger on
well into the tired dawn.

Sleepy sun wakes later each day,
sure sign Autumn’s on his way.

Summer’s gone; she couldn’t stay.
Autumn has arrived today.

What a difference a day makes,
twenty-four little hours.

Radiant sun rising high,
scorching tree tops in the sky.

Replacing sweetness of Summer flowers,
turning trees into colorful towers.

Autumn’s beauty is surely nigh,
beneath this warm September sky.

Nearing are crisp Autumn eves,
with harvest moons and chilly breeze.

Tomorrow what beauty might we see,
as gold and crimson leaves blow free,

Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
savor every beautiful thing.
What a difference twenty-four hours may bring!

By Patricia L. Cisco

***

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

By William Butler Yeats