Now are the boughs unburdened of their fruit

And fields lie shorn. The splendid, arching sun

Measures the hours along her golden route

And southward leans, diminishing her run.

Now are the mornings misted with the cold,

And sounds once faint and far come winging clear;

The maple on the hill turns slowly gold In autumn’s alchemy. Listen, and hear

Far overhead the v-lined, honking band

Cruising the skies to some remote green shore

Where summer dwells. Loving our frost-seared land

We light new fires and close the sheltering door.

So does the earth God’s ancient pledge repeat:

Harvest shall follow seedtime; cold, the heat.

– BETH MERIZON