The trees play a symphony of color,
With the maples and the sweet gums
Filling in the brass section,
The willows, the graceful, high-pitched strings,
And the oaks, leather-headed drums.
It is September, that unsubtle month,
That must be heard beating out summer,
Warning of winter to come.
"These crisp mornings put sweetness in the apples,"
Mama used to say.
And the orchestra plays on--
Sometimes in the raucous sunlight that seems
Brighter because it is rarer than in July,
Sometimes under billowing clouds,
Sometimes softly muffled in the early morning mists.
The song is as sweet as a golden delicious,
But with overtones of melancholy,
Foreshadowing a change of key.
(Copyright 1998 by Sharon Kirk Clifton)
Because of Christ,