Autumn Leaves
When Autumn first bespeaks herself
the fruit is on the vine
but time is still a’ripening
and all the day is mine.
The reaping which is beckoning
I ponder but decline.
Still, Autumn whispers nip my ear
and will not be denied;
so, nimble fingers do their due
and fertile tastes are tried ...
but bend to other voices
ere the seeds are spent and dried.
An Autumn turned to winter
is a season come and gone.
And Autumn, at her finest,
is not readily outshone.
Since Autumn days are numbered,
it makes sense to heed their call ...
as Autumn, when upon us,
is the finest feast of all.