Scarves of worn-out spider webs
A poem about autumn.
This is the sound of the harvest
beyond that row of spruce and aspen
the straining and purring of cogs, belts
and pieces of metal doing their work
to separate the seeds from the chaff
on this late September day that murmurs
with the mellowness of sunshine
and golden trees
A now deep blue sky
that had suggested rain in the morning
birds foraging in the Mountain Ash tree
and a young furry pup who thought
she could harass the old cat
into playing with her
This is an afternoon
that carries the beauty of a hundred fall days
that wears the scarves of worn-out spider webs
and tired perennials with grace
as a rogue wind releases
a scattering of leaves
The rot of autumn
gives up a whiff of well done
unlike any other season
