Autumn dances across the plains, her copper tresses brushing against the leaves on the trees as she passes.
She entices all with her beauty wantonly whispering that she will linger
Even as we are awed by the brilliance of her halcyon reflections in the lake
The blackbirds congregate and cry out as they perch mottled amidst the jingling of the golden coins on the poplars
Their anxious cacophony announces that they are not deceived by such a majestic charade
They know too well her familiar calling cards and gather to begin their long trek southward
Although the flame haired temptress beckons them to stay and bask in her warmth
But the winged warriors know that autumn is a beguiling beauty whose temperament can be very fickle, restless and fleeting.
One moment her warm breath and unequaled splendor have conquered the landscape
With the turn of her heel the foreboding winds and driving rain of early winter arrive as a reminder that the old man cannot be far behind
And all that is left of the restless gypsy is the rustle of her crimson petticoats that have left their remnants scattered on the ground as a bittersweet reminder of her once blazing glory and hypnotic dance upon the landscape . . .
Alas now but a smoldering memory in the vermillion haze of the sunset---she has vanished.
She entices all with her beauty wantonly whispering that she will linger
Even as we are awed by the brilliance of her halcyon reflections in the lake
The blackbirds congregate and cry out as they perch mottled amidst the jingling of the golden coins on the poplars
Their anxious cacophony announces that they are not deceived by such a majestic charade
They know too well her familiar calling cards and gather to begin their long trek southward
Although the flame haired temptress beckons them to stay and bask in her warmth
But the winged warriors know that autumn is a beguiling beauty whose temperament can be very fickle, restless and fleeting.
One moment her warm breath and unequaled splendor have conquered the landscape
With the turn of her heel the foreboding winds and driving rain of early winter arrive as a reminder that the old man cannot be far behind
And all that is left of the restless gypsy is the rustle of her crimson petticoats that have left their remnants scattered on the ground as a bittersweet reminder of her once blazing glory and hypnotic dance upon the landscape . . .
Alas now but a smoldering memory in the vermillion haze of the sunset---she has vanished.
C. L. Schrage
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