the season bespeaks of poetry

(and that title definitely says that WE should not be the poet!!)


What mortal brush can duplicate
An autumn sylvan sight,
Or skillfully originate
Such colors of delight?
No simulating human hand
Can make a piece of art as grand.

An arc of sumacs lines the grove
With scarlet, in the rear;
Leaves–orange, greenish, buff and mauve,
Red, auburn, soft and sear–
Hang quaking in the languid breeze,
Or, quiet, shine around the trees.

A woodbine clings against an oak,
Beneath whose stalwart arms
The acorn and the artichoke
Display their chestnut charms,
The walnut and the hickory
Commingling in the harmony.

The stretching clouds’ tranquility
Blends with the turquoise hue,
And fills us with an ecstasy
Which thrills us through and through.
He only, who depicted all,
Can truly paint a woodland fall.
–Willis Hudspeth

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the leaves on our journal-theme for the Fall, are from a "gingko" tree.

Walk to Rivendell:  We go by Bill Ferny’s tumble-down shack just before we leave town.
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