Gone the green, with the sun, autumns red, golds and yellows have been spun. Warm your hearth, with fires so bright, as the cold seeps into the night. Blustery nights, lie ahead, greens, turns to gold, orange and red.
Leaves of crimson do flutter on by, as we wind down with a deep sigh. Stock the larder, gather your fruit, as the huntsmen, begin to shoot. Berries and nuts, in basket they be, harvest wild foods, from roots, earth and tree. Feel the new rhythm, to the ticking of the clock, gather your bounty, gather your flock.
Take a deep breath when all is done, for the wheel, does turn with the setting sun. Equal the day and night on the wheel, the gateway to winter she does reveal.
Autumns child, does be fair of face, as she eases now in her pace. Time does shift, to a spiraling crawl, she gives us time for winters drawl.