autumn

The sigh of summer wheezes through the trees,
Too weary of its brazen, heat-stroked song;
It rests a beat and crumples to its knees
And with one hand it passes the baton.
A cooler breeze now lifts our morning heads
From pillows where we dream of warmer days,
It carries coloured infants to their beds
From branches where they once were apt to play.
Among the echoes of this season's dirge
There never was a sweeter anthem known:
A sense, despite the winter's future scourge,
That present joys are presently full grown.
Beauty shines from autumn's finite face -
Resplendent cornucopia of grace.