what sacred, secret place is this
where seasons fly upon the wind,
and the spirit of Autumn
rests in solitude,
passing the days between winter and summer
with visions of russet, red and gold
in colors so vivid
even the windswept flame
could never hope to reflect them.
It is here in silence that Autumn sleeps,
touched by night with hoary frost,
that edges her swirling hair with silver.
Here she waits,
serenaded by howling winter winds until,
in a swirl of spring and a burst of summer,
time again calls for her to paint upon his canvas.
The with flame-colored palette
and crisp Autumn breezes
her melody bursts over all of creation,
like the tune of a moonlit scarecrow,
played on a fiddle of fire.
Soaring, leaping, dancing it flies,
scattering summer in it's wake,
and daring winter to freeze it in snow,
soon...soon...the call will come,
a hint of red, a touch of harvest,
and she will stir from her silent slumber.
Look lovingly upon her while you may,
sing with her song while the winds still play it.
For though she will never cease to dance
in her time upon the Earth,
so, too, her time will never cease to pass.