In autumnís prime
     the forest wraps herself
     in regal red and gold.

The late October sun
     with garnet fingers parts her leafy hair
     and bathes her in his warming rays,
     showering her with shimmering gems.

Above our heads the brilliant treetops
     brush with orange the skyís translucent blue,
     producing vibrant colors far beyond
     the magic palette of Cezanne.

In friendly circlets,
     tiny wisps of steam arise 
     from damp and leafy carpets,
     paging never-ending sleep.

Even songs of birds 
     seem laden with fatigue, 
     and droning insects 
     hum a soothing lullaby
     to drowsy trees.

As winterís dormant rest arrives,
     the feathery lace of verdant ferns,
     waving gently in the breeze,
     intone the coda of summerís song.


Written circa 1962 by David L Brungart - © Copyright