He comes anon a Summer Sun, to sprinkle trees with dust,
A crackling floor he must adore; he lines the fields with rust.

Leaves a falling are his calling as bareness becomes the trees;
Colour's lost - that is the cost, as he strips the branches with ease.

He's nature's prep for its first step to defeat Winters wrath of cold.
Land made ready, trees a steady; standing together, oh so bold.

To human eye a golden dye becomes the world we live in,
As he dines the beauty shines, brown hue now takes the win.

But time so sweet now must retreat, and put to rest this phantom,
As Winter nears and white appears, and the glow is lost from Autumn.