Autumn Song

Ah, those emerald ephemeral days, they pass
with seasons! The early autumn months
where greens have reason to convert to gold.
A trace of blood imbues the speckled scene
with thought like dabbled shades of sadness,
yet caught by hope that lifts: we think about
the innocence of spring, of memories, exuberance
of summer, a song whose echoes remain faintly
in the air. It is not how to grow but how to know
to live, not how to strive but how to feel the moments
that abound, not how to squander time, but how to keep,
conserve for darkening days and the long sleep.
Before we're torn away, a sense, we have arrived
at autumn forests, filled with summer's glory,
retaining such of it as will endure. Springs are
too young, summers too proud. A mellow autumn
nearer to the heart, not loud, but muted, wise,
knowing its limitation, rising into the sap of fruit,
grown by experience, sown by all life's means,
ampler than all. Its greens enthral with strength,
its orange with content, its purple speaks of fall,
of stillness, slowing breath, of peace, of death.