First and Fallen

The sun is silver, Summer ends.
Cool, the wind that blows, that throws
the first and faintest Autumn scent-
a distand chimney bricked and churning,
fallen maple, chopped and burning.
Brown and yellow leaves on sidewalks
sleeping, crisp and windcaught creeping.

It blows, and blowing throws these subtle
strong September smells, like castings
swells to cover Summer's silken sand,
to primrose paint, its green and gardened hands.

Beyond the jade horizon hilled,
October, near and breathing, casts its clear
and harvest sky. Comely cast,
abound in slightly cold and paler blue-
as if years and ages younger,
infant full and fresh.

Chestnuts falling gild the ground,
dropping dressed in brownish crimson,
deep maroon, with auburn burnt and singed.
Upon the dawn of dusk, each one casts
its colors skyward; a million tiny bursts
erupt to drench the sky, across and dripping,
down the burning canvas calm.

The moon an orange,
dropped amidst the climbing stars collected,
clustering crystals clear. The manderin sits
and dangles dear, appearing cold and cloudless close.
The stars surrounding, constellations bounding,
breathless bright awake and wander
far their shadowed fields. Burning,
each seems birthed this very night.

Cold the wind that midnight blows,
along the meadows, leaved and lush.
Flowing, blowing, crisp and crossing,
ripe and rushing round the vast
and casting veil of night. Restless
lingers loud the leaf racked rustle,
dropped and drifting, hidden by
the moonlight's strange and shifting shine.

Painted blooms the flowered dawn.
Violet, lilac lily, primrose placed
and painted, born about the brow
of morning's making. Above,
all then blends to apricot stained;
birthed, the first and fallen Autumn morn.