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