I can feel the signs of autumn in the breeze,
summer sighs and makes to leave,
windy warm through apple trees.
I can smell the rain upon the air,
dewy drops on leafy tops,
shimmers in my hair.

The frost paints silver shadows on the dawn,
turning pigments red and brown, like bucks grown from the fawn.
The words I speak that hover in the air,
surround my senses and touch your lips,
a time machine in little sips,
and rusty rosy dirt upon the ground we lay,
burrowed deep, seeds fall asleep,
field mice emerge to play.

Mother Earth, she turns and speaks,
in red tailed hawks and icy creeks,
in golden mountains,
pumpkin squash,
cider presses,
autumn moss,
fodder crafting Mabon’s dresses.
formed from which we all can grow,
the world above,
and world below,
and that which sets the hearth aglow.

Sarah