Poem Autumn

by David Dorrell

The odor of wet, stirred dry decay
in a rush of air (cooler moving),
carried away.

The breeze peeks beneath
a tan leaf, then lays it back:
the earth’s worn bed linen.

Nature dons its tattered comforter
knit and stitched by its own self,
shed in variegated layers,
now covering its dormant feet.
An evidence of life,
soon past.

Autumn, the year’s eventide
when fat squirrels,
under brush and dirt, hide
their bedtime snacks
and tall trees brazenly
discard their summer garments
to stand wrinkled and naked
against the deepening chill.


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