when sugar maples glow plum and gold
we breathe this year's ashen breeze
smoky and aged in barrels of promise
we wait for the rush of geese and snow
clouds hang low their woolly manes
soft and grey above autumn's oaks
shaken and windswept, we are crimson-
flushed, gently calling for change
i'll say farewell on the mossy stoop
though it greeted me with colored leaves
on more whimsical afternoons years ago
but now a northern rustling bids me to go.
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