Just For You Poetry

In the Green Mountain State,
September is pretender,
October holds the glitter and the gold;
flaunting colors oh so bold!

In the hills, the mists hang low,
enveloping the cows and farms,
the moon is fat, just like a pumpkin,
special, with its romantic charms.

The magic of the maples turning,
the crunch of leaves from under feet;
the chill of fall nipping at your nostrils,
as you meander down a curving street.

In the graveyard, Ethan Allen sleeps,
along with poet, Robert Frost;
the Catamount Tavern lies close by,
where many a rum-tinged drink was tossed.

In French, Vermont means Green Mountain,
and in September, it is grand;
the days wherein I spent my youth,
I'm proud I'm from this rocky land.

September, is the month when I was born,
and New England's the land that holds my heart;
the autumn of my years is now upon me,
I only hope that I have done my part.

I have seen the most beautiful photographs of New England in the autumn, and it more than compares with my own beautiful Yorkshire.

How fortunate you are to have the colourful maple trees;i was out yesterday collecting conkers from beneath our horse chestnut trees the same trees ,the same park always in September since i was 3..lol.

A lovely seasonal and beautifully descriptive poem David...thank you

So vivid your penned picture of your beautiful countryside that I felt I was seeing for real those maples turning. Great read.