A hard frost comes: the Solomon’s Seal
is changed from green to straw.
The yellow maple leaves, genteel,
obey November’s law.
Like bats or butterflies they flit,
but always down they come.
Wrapped up for cold, outside, I sit
and watch till I am numb.
The sun’s rays light these golden leaves –
last flame of Autumn’s fire.
A solace to any soul that grieves,
a last act to admire.
Still, trees release their cloaks in sheaves,
and Autumn must retire.
Photo at top: Wikimedia Commons photo.