Autumn’s vigor will not be spent. I think
each day will be its last. Hard wind all night
and morning comes, still red and gold remains.
Even under gray clouds, the yellow light
pours from the hills. Even October rains
cannot tear the tenacious colors down.
Blackbirds gather to offer their chatter
against the brittle corn. Warblers have flown
away; geese are flying. The winter birds
stay. How is it that autumn now is sweet,
more lingering than spring, kinder than summer?
Winter is a melody I’ve not yet heard,
but I shall sing in time. The seeds are scattered.
The bright green grasses fade around my feet.