Falls

 

The leaves are already letting go,

Letting the dream of summer fade

Into the gauzy gaze of memory,

Where everything is golden light.

The swamps are red again,

Early as ever,

Canaries in the autumn coal mine,

Dying for their promptitude.

And morning is crisp

As a fallen apple,

Crisp as a song in the shallow air,

Promising months of mellow glory

Before the pall

Of winter

Falls.