Crisp is the wind
that moans through the trees.

Long inviting days
that reminisce of summer's gold.

If ever there was
A fresh breath of spring,
But for the purity
of an early autumn dawn.

Bright red and auburn leaves
Accent their rival green.

Autumn angel's touch
Grace and beauty unfold.

Listening I hear...
The echoes of a church bell ring,
Another change in season
As time forever travels on.

Katheran Crawford © 2006

 

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