My Poetry. Golden Whisper, Crimson Sigh.

The days grow short, the air grows crisp and keen,
A painter's brush sweeps 'cross the verdant scene.
From summer's blush to fiery hues they turn,
Where amber, russet, gold, and crimson burn.

The maple dons a cloak of scarlet bright,
The oak stands steadfast, bathed in golden light.
A whisper through the branches, soft and low,
As gentle breezes through the tree-tops go.

A carpet woven, leaves descend and fall,
A crunching symphony at nature's call.
The scent of woodsmoke, distant and profound,
As harvest blessings grace the hallowed ground.

The squirrel scurries, gathering its store,
For colder days that knock upon the door.
A silent promise, held within the air,
Of winter's slumber, banishing all care.

Oh, autumn's grace, a beauty bittersweet,
A fading splendor, wonderfully complete.
A time for solace, quiet and serene,
The poignant farewell of a vibrant green.

Autumn is such a Beautiful time of the Year.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025