I walked, this morning, with Autumn,
Her chill hand in mine,
Her breath cool on my cheek.
She wore as mantle the muted blue sky
flocked with dove-gray cloud.
We marked our steps in asters,
goldenrod, and foamy white snakeroot.
“Fret not,” she said,
“over Winter’s approach.”
Her voice rustled in sunset hues.
“Heed the crickets’ chant —
“still time still time still time.
“Harvest the cooling air.
“Gather the stretched-long rays
“of enduring sun,
In downward drift around us,
the cider leaves collected,
And all the forest