What else is there to say
for a season that banks its gold in plain view,
pushed street-side, deep in color and crunch?
Hard labor is done, jackets shucked by mid-morning,
to pull treasure by teeth through the grass,
asking no payment for piled plenty,
but children’s run-and-leap laughter.
We are all students and romantics again in autumn.
Every gust brings wonder drifting down,
brighter for its brevity.
joining, at least for today,
found via The Habit of Being