Autumn Movement | by Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,
not one lasts.

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Where The Sycamore Grew | By Carrie Richards

The house seemed smaller, now viewed by older eyes…
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared

But somehow we knew it would still be there….
Strangely different, …yet much the same
There was an unfamiliar young child’s tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid…
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew…

Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives…..
…of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries…
…a place where I cried night after night when mother died…
…and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes….
Yes….it is all still there, in the little yellow house

Funny, but I’m glad they kept the yellow…
It has the same white shutters…
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew…

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(Author Unknown)

“Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow.”

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“Days Gone Past” | By Cindy Jorgenson

I think often of the days gone past
Deep in my memory where I know they will last.
Let’s take a walk in the woods so near.
Listen, listen do you hear?
The rustle of leaves,
Birds, flying, chirping,
Little animals scurry to and fro,
The smell of wood smoke on
Cold fall days.
I lift up my face to the suns golden rays.
My memories they still stay.
With a light happy step and a big wide smile,
Let’s sit, let’s talk for a long, long while.
My memories are wonderful of days gone past.
Lets sit I’ll share them with you at last.

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Merry Autumn Days | By Charles Dickens

‘Tis pleasant on a fine spring morn
To see the buds expand,.
‘Tis pleasant in the summer time
To see the fruitful land;
‘Tis pleasant on a winter’s night
To sit around the blaze,
But what are joys like these, my boys,
To merry autumn days!

We hail the merry Autumn days,
When leaves are turning red;
Because they’re far more beautiful
Than anyone has said,
We hail the merry harvest time,
The gayest of the year;
The time of rich and bounteous crops,
Rejoicing and good cheer.

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“The Harvest” | By Franca de la Pena

Golden sheaves stand ripening
in the setting sun,
Bounty of a fruitful harvest,
A year’s labor well spent.

From tiniest seed to trees laden
with sweet promise
The earth gives forth her joy
in abundance.

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“Autumn Magic” | By Jeanne Fiedler

It’s Fall
The season of wisdom
where we attain
colors of great knowledge
and darker shades of fear

The confusing temperatures
One Spring day
One Winter day
balanced back and forth
to shock us into
temperance and equanimity

The sun is majestic
as it glares through
the vibrant shades
of windblown leaves
as they leave their
colorful hues
on the bare shuffling
ground

The birds are migrating
They flow in and out of
the scenery

As we endure the beauty
We can see the long
permanence of impermanence
Like life and death
from transience to eternity

There’s too much time
But there’s not enough time

We’re listless as the Winter
approaches
Showing its chilling and
colorless humbling of life…

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“An Autumn Day” | By B R Jording

Tell me when the days turn cold
And the crisp, bitter nights set in
I’ll bid adieu, adieu to the sun
And embrace the northern winds
Wake me from my restless sleep
For the trees will crackle soon
And shed their cumbersome coats and dance
bare with me and the moon
My mouth how it waters in pure delight
Dreaming of scented dregs
Cinnamon, pumpkin, apple spice
Swirling in my head!
And on Halloween, I’ll await you where
The headless one rides by
chasing after phantom fools
and so this nigh shall I,
September days may shorten in length
October evenings can fright
November rains may fall and freeze
Over the Samoan night
but deep within the heart
Of the dormant Earth
The little buds await the Fall
To ensure them of rebirth
And so I sit much like them
Dependant in every way
Upon the plentiful harvest,
Of an autumn day.