Under seven ducks and a waning moon
Autumn days bite crisp and tart
Sun shoots through trees as they cling to leaves
September falling away.
Day demands we strip from morning-nip
Teasing to a mid-day warm
Grass sure still needs a mowing
Though round the corner, a chance for snow.
Change stirs all emotions
Mysterious in their range
Leaves flirt past, one by one
Stored from summer’s bright
And curved to hold the sun.
Squirrels run and shop mushrooms
Seeming to scamper at will
Goldenrod as tall as our eye
Waving to make us remember
As if we could forget.
A tree full of branches makes discards
Deliberately to strew and scatter
Gaining momentum day by day.
Today’s game: random solitaire.
A gradual warning about time
Smell of smoke sings its own tune
Sometimes with subtle hint of marshmello
Lightly laced with spice and apple.
Pumpkin pies cool on windows
Pipe smoke, and dad’s long ago call for “supper time.”
Thanks old pal, I suspect having seasons again is really sweet, and better with age.