The Last Dance

Yesterday’s gowns of flame-colored cloth

Rustled during the dance.

Beauties were bold,

Commanding attention,

Whirling their opulent folds.

The nights grew colder,

The wind became bolder,

Stripping the trees of their garb.

The fields turned brown;

The pumpkins frowned.

The bracken now appears barbed.

Stark trembling trees

Have shed their last tatter.

Nothing is left to flatter.

Gone is the gold,

No more the crimson.

Scraps of brown are now old.

Seasonal remnants

Are hidden away.

Squirrels have buried their hoard.

The final words are etched in frost,

The story of Autumn’s been told.

by Heather J. Willis, author