Indian Summer

A coat of colors drapes the land.
Sun slanting rays bright and bland.
A new season is at hand.

The cool arm of autumn,
has spread silently in,
Birds fly south swiftly.
On the telling wind.

Indian Summer has come.
When we can rest at last.
A world of peace and warmth,
conjuring up the past.

A time twixt here and there,
magic air and harvest fair,
when the squirrel hustles,
to fill its cornucopian lair.

The smell of wood smoke,
rises slowly in the placid air,
drifts in the distance,
going nowhere.

Time stands still for a moment,
in the waning light,
conjuring dreams of olden days,
before the coming night.

We savor the moment,
while we can,
then brace for the time,
so close at hand.

When the chill wave of winter,
steals cross the land,
and every creature, once again,
feels its cruel hand.

Waterfall in Indian Summer


More Poems

My Place

Read War's End, the Novel

Copyright 2005 © Ronald W. Hull