On edge of autumn’s ebbing call
I pause to hear a solemn hush
that breathes in whispered stance between
sweet fading fall and winter’s rush.
Beyond this colored glory,
the burnished hues of tarnished gold
rouse the empty field in story
when verdant dell and rill still rolled,
when cottonwood and willow cooled the heat of summer’s grace,
when fawn and doe stood still in wonder among the shadows green with lace,
when calling birds stilled the current of summer’s flux beneath their wings,
when comfort came at river’s edge, when brooks would play and gently sing.
At edge of autumn’s field I stand,
witness to the season’s steep,
where browning grasses gather dreams and tuck the meadow in for sleep,
where giants drop their memories in gold about their feet,
where streams decline to whisper words of songs they can’t repeat,
where raining ochre golden reds dry the azure barren blue,
where every breath is held in hush pulling near each moment true.
I stand in quiet submission,
drawn in part by passing time,
coerced to close this phase of life
and calmly lay it down in rhyme.
This present held in honor,
my nod, respect, from one who knows
that spring will once more hold them
beyond the coming winter snows.