The trees that trace the footpath,
a gala to attend,
dance gaily in the autumn wind
with limber boughs that bow and bend.

The granny greens of summer
to reds delicious fall
with oranges and yellows bright,
the envy green of pine trees tall.

As harvest days grow shorter,
The air grows honeycrisp
And blows a breeze through ripened trees
with summer’s memory but a wisp.

The crisp, cool susurration
through trees of sunlit dapples,
imparts itself into the leaves
that fall from trees like apples