Autumn colors hesitate,
they come in mid-November;
in this part of Arizona,
(New England long remembered).
Aspens take the golden prize,
against the dark, green pine;
while in Vermont, it's maples,
through morning mist do shine.
But the fall comes in the breezes,
that are cool, and crisp and sharp;
still, the somber clouds of dawn,
cover morning, like a tarp.
Summer's banished from the scene,
the scorching heat has gone;
replaced with autumn's grace,
and October's song.
The scent of season's changing,
greets our nostrils as we breathe;
we bank the summer's memory,
and take our measured leave.