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,

“And abide.”

In downward drift around us,

the cider leaves collected,

And all the forest

breathed.

— C.Birde