Decrescendo

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,

Heralding fall,

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)

Write on!

Because of Christ,

Sharon

Decrescendo

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

Copyright 1996 by Sharon Kirk Clifton