Leaves are falling all around me,
containing such color and beauty.
The smell of the air is crisp,
Like dew on mountain trees.

The temperature outside decreasing,
As does my care in the world,
When I'm drawing smoke,
from such tobacco that is sweet.
It is now my favorite season.
A season I have branded "Pipe Season".

A pipe made of corn,
A heart made from passion.
A hobby I consider gold.
I'll continue to love this pipe of mine,
Until I'm eighty years old.

Rich clouds drawn from flaming leaves,
Leaves seasoned like cucumbers resting in salted vinegar.
The chilled breeze of Autumn flows smoothly,
With my vanilla flavored taste buds.

An odor like heaven enters my nose,
I grow fond of my handheld chimney,
Sitting at my palm as I admire it as a work of art.
Surpassing the Sistine Chapel,
Through my teak colored eyes.

Now I feel that Autumn is here,
This pipe has inspired it's elegance.
But what will become of it when the Winter arrives?
This moment will eventually end,
I fear.