Walking across scattered pages,
I hear the rustle of fallen leaves,
Glimpses of diaried days and handwritten weeks,
Calendar months torn until the fall,
Pages left to read the months past
With years drifting in the October wind.
I climb thru the trees along the ridge,
Surrounded by gold and bronze-
Iron cold days ahead
Soon wreathed in silver and faded memories.
Autumn has come to the woods
And autumn has come to me.