When Autumn follows, quiet, grim,
With hollow gaze and rawboned limb,
He turns the warm air bittersweet,
Treading the Earth with silent feet.

The chattering of birds grows still
When gentle Autumn works his will.
He gestures once, his fingers poised:
He works best with absence of noise.

The trees stretch proudly in full height
As Autumn paints their foliage bright -
He sings out orange, yellow, gold,
Voice vibrant, rich, exhaling cold.

He visits every crevice small
And takes the time to inward crawl
To every creature huddled tight
And give to them a kiss good-night.

And as their noses sting with frost,
He quickly makes his exit, lost,
To radiant rustling leaves outside.
He walks the barren forests wide,

And scales the weathered tree-trunks broad.
He views his work and gives a nod,
For he is modest, sometimes gruff:
A job well done is thanks enough.

He sinks down with the setting sun
For Winter’s work has now begun,
And he is free to rest and sleep
As clouds of snow above him creep.