This is a poem about the coming of Autumn to the great plains of North America.

When the frigid fingers of Jack Frost

Flash out to shrivel the cringing leaves …



Swaying branches drip tears of scarlet, yellow,

And flaming orange …



Weeping forests wail silently

in swaths of cascading foliage,

Piling swiftly to mounds of disintegrating debris—

Shuffling and whispering with gusting eddies of wind.



Sometimes, like the ghost of summer-past

Returning to the scene of its poignant demise,

'Indian Summer' unfurls in soft, peaceful days

And warm, caressing breezes.



Then autumn rushes back

To reclaim its intrinsic birthright …

Handmaiden to the coming

Ice King.



Presently posted on Autumn Leaves:

http://www.sondra.net/al/