Autumn Tales

The crisp autumn air blows over the vale
whistling hollow tunes in lows and highs;
it blows past trees and brown forest floor
tossing dried leaves up towards the skies.

I planted pink rose shrubs in my garden
they sprung to life in the month of May;
the blooming petals now no longer blush;
the last rose of summer has wilted away.

I miss the shade of lush verdant glades
and all the foliage that once was green;
at the touch of autumn, all colors change
to a myriad of yellows and golden sheen.

Ripe golden apples, soft sheaths of corn,
brittle leaves of amber float on the lake, 
the hay is rolled, winged seeds disperse,
the spirit of autumn is alive and awake!

The woodlands will have no flaxen leaf,
the wind has plucked them one by one -
a prelude to fresh and new beginnings; 
it is time to bury what is bygone. 

And though the sun is weak and bleak
and the thrush sings in a plaintive tune,
I delight in the seasonal figs and pies
and the festivities of the orange moon.

© Copyright: Leah Chrestien. September 2023.  The post Autumn Tales | Poetry first appeared on The Ecstatic Storyteller. The author reserves the right to the content. No reproduction of content in any form is permitted without the prior consent of the author.