Through September enters the withered howl and curling auburn

Wind-strum Summer rays fail to the brisk oncomings of Winter’s white veil; the changing of the guard.

A walk—through a suburban street celebrating the aging greens and the reddening fern.

Because under warming timber, sparse should be the color green, as the preferences of Autumn’s image arrive—where the poetry thrives with the awakened bard.

Autumn is but a mere symbol to the progression of an author’s inspired boom.

With the floor blanketed by fallen leaves and harvest pumpkins and misconfigured gourds

With the chilly whispers across October hollow and the surrender of July’s wretched doom.

For from the heated spires of our mid-summer dread, arise the crisp welcomed haunts of Autumn’s warmly colored lords.

 Merry are those around the warm fire on a September night; Winter’s gateway.

As through the evening glare, the rain swept bitter hours we foretell

Under midnight glowing moon, the briskness breaks the Summer’s long day.

Until the Spring time bloom, we hibernate for the incoming frigidness under in our comfortable dwell.

 Photo by Mathias Reding on Unsplash