Autumn is the wealthiest time.
Oh, winter is regal, but dull.
In its time of gloom, it bleaches
the gritty ground white to reflect
a blue-gray sky, that pours
down indolent cinder trails
into red brick and flagstone chimneys.
And spring - springs from this lull,
dancing like an unseasoned child
too festive for its own good,
splashing carelessly its random colors
like stolen toys it’ll never have again.
For all its youth, spring isn’t king.
Summer, now it’s getting warm.
In a blaze it blooms the belated flowers
that waited for a mature birth,
to be burned…and savored by the breeze
that bares its name, in the sun’s full glory
that only it can bear.
But autumn is the wealthiest time.
She’s seen the others' intensity,
all their tints and tones,
then chose wisely her single color.
While they dithered in dazzle,
she glitters her subjects in riches
they can’t match – the world’s awash
in her time of ever melting gold.