Winter Coming On
Morning is pale now, late to the starting
Softly in brisk air a year is departing,
Trees burn with colors, leaves fall and flutter
Hiding the lawn fringe by roadside and gutter.
Sharp scornful squawkers, cranes vee over farms,
Cornstork-gashed fields, with tall silos and barns,
Far edged with the flourish of deep red and gold
Which will carpet the banks as days become cold.
Smoke from the bonfires by garden sheds swirling
Drifts up through the clear air where clouds are curling.
Driven by north winds hastening along
The season has turned; winter coming on.
Crisp apples await for a Thanksgiving pie,
Dig out the sweater, a book and the “chai”.