Leaves of currant feel woven and prickly.

Laughs inside and the clinking of glass;

They are peppering, shredding, and pickling,

Adding cloves to the mixture, perchance.

And the forest, a banterer, hassles

To deflect all that noise and takes aim

At the hilltop where sun-beaten hazels

May seem singed by a campfire flame.

Here the footpath descends to a gully;

Here one feels for a withered old snag

And for Autumn the Ragman who glumly

Sweeps up into it crumbs he can bag.

And one feels for creation that’s simpler

Than some sages have stubbornly said,

For the birches that languish and whimper,

And for all that must come to an end.

Why blink dumbly—you do know at bottom

What’s ahead has been scorched by the droughts,

And the heavy white smog of the autumn

Weaves a cobweb to sneak in the house.

There’s a pass through the fence, for that matter,

That could lead to the woods, but so far—

Laughs inside and a good kitchen chatter;

Likewise, chatter and laughs from afar.