Craig W. Steele

An icy breeze now frosts my lawn
and shocks the trees with chilling song.
The summer’s past; it’s autumn’s dawn,
with all that season brings along:

new-fallen leaves that dance and scatter,
like painted sails bereft of ships,
all blown about in rustling chatter
by the wind that nips my lips;

the spicy smoke of burning leaves
that stings my nose to my delight;
the first icicles on the eaves—
those frozen fangs grew overnight;

new harvest dances coming soon,
and hayrides through the clean-picked fields
lit silver-white by harvest moon,
to celebrate the farmers’ yields;

big mugs of steaming cider braced
with cinnamon, allspice, and cloves,
or hot and frothy cocoa laced
with marshmallows in gooey loaves;

the sunsets, weak, with pale warm glow,
like pumpkin pies so round and sweet;
orange Jack-o’-lanterns in a row
when kids go out to trick-or-treat.

I love the sounds, the smells, the sights,
the tastes that only fall can bring.
When shorter days make longer nights,
I long to hear the sleigh bells’ ring.