The year is turning once again
as rust and sand invade the leaves.
The sun rises in a veil of mist
and in pale skies birds turn to Africa.
I look out over these ochre trees
and remember their green loveliness.
Such a short while since I felt the first bud
and dreamed of coming sunkissed days.
The sun retreats, defeated, to the south,
soon to hide behind the shadowed hills.
There is damp decay upon the winds
that hints of greater griefs that wait their call.
And I too look upon my own Autumn,
my own change from bursting bud to Fall.
And yet – beyond the ice and dark there is hope,
hope for golden warmth again for the bud
And sunblest kisses once more for her and me.