The sounds of autumn's impending departure whisper in the atmosphere,

Golden glows taper,

As harvest's last dance occurs—

A glittering mop of gold and crimson,

Pages turning in a gentle splendor.

The leaf first tired and then, letting go,

Falling gently, gallantly shy,

Each a tale, told in a moment,

Winding turbines of warmth and chill.

On breezes commix sounds of old,

Annealing logs of yore and brightened tales,

Caressing cheeks and ruffling hair,

Sweet-smelling with the breath of autumn.

Done breathing on this silent Earth,

As pleasantries fade to dusk to dawn,

A gentle coolness does wrap round the trees,

While whispers bend with the vibrating leaves.

The days shorten, filled with elegance,

Urging in vain that the warmth be held,

Deep winter looms distant yet close,

Cold should not give both of these feelings.

Still lies the harvest of many years,

As dusk slips through the doorway of Paradise,

Stars brighter begin to twinkle on,

And indeed,

We have settled into a thin, narrow stream,

Between the twilight of dusk, yet gleaming bright—

The world so still, so rich with dreams,

In the waning twinkling of the warm sun,

So curious the dance of seasons,

How fast the autumn coats,

Yet ones so precious and loved —

For hidden within is warmth's leaving smile.

Soft whispers bring warmth,

That life is a short, pronounced season

With every leaf that descends incomplete,

At every sojourner there beneath.

Stand we henceforth, then,

In all-under-the-skies,

With open breasts and safe

From the question why?

And while the attention of the frost creeps up our flesh,

Immortal will this tune easily

Meld and become a lulling in happy hope,

When time is free.