September Evening

this day painted gold the leaves
and signalled souls under the eaves
that all too soon the south will call
not so translucent glow the clouds
which this September evening shrouds
the dying sunset of the early Fall,
from the last rose petals weep
and spiders from their crannies creep
upon primeval wisdom all rely
for the bounties they have known
and that which nature doth bestow
will come no more now that the summer dies.

Early October

The leaves are changing late this year
afeared to show their turning
and so the boughs hang heavy here
as if for autumn yearning
each scarlet blush, the brown decay
each golden glimpse in air
falls not into the wind at play
but holds like summer’s there
no seed nor kernal comes to ground
reticent to their fate
and from the trees comes not a sound
their leaves are changing late.