The forest still is rich, if not as green,
As flecks of gold and umber decorate
The canopy, and caterpillars crawl
Up grasses tipped with ochre. Byzantine
Brown-banded honeybees investigate
The beds of Black-eyed Susans. Pumpkins loll
Beneath their broad-leaved vines. I see the Fall
Arriving, and I feel the sun relent;
The year begins to make its slow descent
To Winter. When the air is light, breath comes
More easily. I smell chrysanthemums,
Their earthen blooms—like Eden’s early days—
Are soaking up the Summer’s final rays.
I wonder where my rays of Summer went.
Out by the bandstand, I can hear a drum
And earnest voices rising with guitars
Against the rhythm of the wind and thrum
Of the cicadas.Night falls and the stars
Reveal no hint of what this will become.
I trust these woods will bloom in May again.
I hope the music will be playing then.