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

The granny greens of summer
wax warmer in the fall
with reds and golds delicious
who warn of winter’s thrall

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

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

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