Golden is the Autumn,
dancing in her veils of splendor;
laughing through the woodlands,
pirouetting on the hillsides,
and brushing frosty moonlight from her hair.
Bittersweet the taste of apples
on her lips of tempting crimson;
silver slippers tripping lightly
over fields of ripening corn.
One by one her veils slip earthward
leaving carpets sweetly resting
upon future bursts of color
sleeping now in pregnant slumber.
Now she swirls in ardent motion
as her wrappings fly far from her
‘til at last she stands resplendent
bare-limbed and reaching skyward.
Golden Autumn leaves us lonely
for the masterpiece so lovely
that she paints upon the canvas
of our summer-weary hearts.
c. Donna Swanson
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