Here days are gray;
here gold goes on
to rhyme with russet, yes -
with auburn, lemon, almond.... Voices of gold
keep crying across
the dark of the bark, the mesh of memory.
Here days are gray
to let the brush
touch the palette between us.
There is no crimson in our lives
as gold defines our season.
Leaves are moments - lovely, lingering....
Autumn in us
is their ceaseless language of falling within.