Oh, hush now! Spare me banal verse
of how decay and death appear
–as if they’re conjured by a curse—
when autumn’s winds blow summer clear.

The spring is new, the fall is old,
the summer’s day, the winter’s night,
at least that’s how the story’s told.
My god! Our metaphors are trite.

It’s autumn when I’m most alive,
when best I hear my muse’s song.
In cool and hue my spirits thrive.
It’s then I’m vibrant, fertile, strong.

Oh, sing of sacred autumn love,
of soil below and leaves above.