Autumn-kindled

The field that yielded farmer-gold

Is stripped; dawn lifts its latch

We spill into summer’s frail hold

Ere autumn strikes its match

The lawn’s deep-cool pooled luxury

Is touched by trace of tears

With what once was and what must be

Of leaf-song balladeers

The garden bares its fare; we smile

While that fast-talking clock

Seems bent upon the grinning guile

Of petals on the walk

Into dawn’s honeyed yawn we run,

Where summer’s spangled lea

Rolls like a wave beneath the sun

Toward eternity

For every bloom in earth’s ball-room

And early green of youth

Is caught up in Time’s spinning loom

Of season-woven truth

And where we staggered infant-like

Then swaggered with pretense

We pause because the clock soon strikes

In deft deliverance

…and we accept that we, inept

At matters of good-bye

Must learn to dance; nothing withheld

Autumn leans on the sky

© Janet Martin

 This wheat-field is balled up and gone, as are most in the area .

  I noticed burgundy edges on a deep green maple tree.