Skies

Don't

you

love

a

lively

sky

where

tattered

bits

of clouds

rush

by

and

frantic

dancing

leaves

leap

high?

A feast

for heart

and soul

and eye.

Nearing November

My feet move, scuff, through crunchy gold--






through rusty-orange, bright, bold--












through brilliant yellow,















richest red--










as old October paths I tread.

Glorious beauty--

fading
fast.


I
cannot
make
my
autumn
last.