Late summer’s shadows turn to fall,
Still wakes in me a beckoned call,
To trample through the crisp dry leaves,
Aft frost from season’s first chilled breeze.
Turning what was once a forest green,
To mountains dressed in fiery sheen,
Of maple red and golden oak,
Flaunts their regal autumn cloak.

I watch a southbound vee of geese,
A romping squirrel through fallen leaves,
As sweet smoke rises from chimney spire,
Hangs like perfume in fall’s cool air.
It’s time like this my soul’s at ease,
A moment to ponder a bit of peace,
With one last chance to take a peek,
Ere winter turns this place to bleak.