It is autumn when fields that once were verdant green, Turned brown after the harvests of its ripened grains, And the hills that were scene on a framed picture, From afar would glisten like a golden treasure.
It is autumn when neighborhoods would turn colorful, With trees matching the hues yellow, brown and purple, And when the wind blasts the trees to heed its call, For leaves to glide with thousand others as they fall.
It is autumn when birds in flocks would fly and fly, To many directions with reasons I know not why, But when squirrels would busily build their cribs, It is for comfort in the leaves weaved with tiny twigs.
It is autumn when raindrops become tears of goodbye, To the warm days of spring and summer’s beautiful sky, Until the cold wind blows its whistling whisper to say, That autumn should go because winter is here to stay.