BEFORE AUTUMN

By Cale Young Rice

Summer's last moon has waned —

Waned

As amber fires

Of an Aztec shrine.

The invisible breath of coming death has stained

The withering leaves with its nepenthean wine —

Autumn's near.

Winds in the woodland moan —

Moan

As memories

Of a chilling yore.

Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strown

From crimson pods along the earth's sere floor —

Autumn's near.

Solitude slowly steals,

Steals

Her silent way

By the songless brook.

At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,

The musing joy of sadness in her look —

Autumn's near.

Yes, with her golden days —

Days

When hope and toil

Are at peace and rest —

Autumn is near, and the tired year‘ mid praise

Lies down with leaf and blossom on his breast —

Autumn's near.