My Autumn is so bittersweet.
The bee will rest soon;
songbirds fly south.
The beetle's work is done.
Thistle blooms have gone to seed
and butterflies
have left the milkweed behind.
I stand among the costumed trees
and celebrate their colors,
counting time.
The year is coming to a close:
Nature's cycle nears completion.
How sweetly sad for the
days to pass...
summer's exuberance gave way;
winter's sleep is not far off.
Autumn's paintbrush
will begin to fade --
the bee will rest soon,
the songbirds fly south.