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Golden leaves whirl to the sound of the breeze
I pull my hat on
There stand a hundred skeleton trees
Once a regiment of impeccable attire
Scarf circles my neck
An explosion of russet mirrored fire
The tallest oak sergeant stands guard at the door
My fingers are chilled
Fragile branched limbs point down to the floor
Oh summer days, when we laughed at the sun
Two sweaters plus a vest
Those days are dead and gone
Bleak days ahead when the cold air is stern
Woolly white socks
Bring back the days that I yearn

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