I Miss Autumn


The crackle of leaves under feet,

The smell of wood smoke to the beat,

Of distant drums, beating the sound,

"Winter is coming, gather round."


Indian summer, lazy cloud day,

Brilliant vistas of color, mark the way,

To wonderlands of vision,

Too soon, blown away.


So savor the moment, be it cold, wet, or dry.

When the wind blows, you too, must fly.

Along ancient pathways to safety and warmth.


Now my wings are clipped, and I can no longer soar,

Along the red, gold, and yellow ridges,

Like so many autumns before.


Safe and warm in my tropical nest,

I miss autumn.


It was always the best.


Copyright 1997 © Ronald W. Hull 



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