Autumn’s Quiet Spell – by Heather Mirassou

The hills breath amber whispers through the day,
as drifting leaves rhythms play;
the maples hang their lanterns low and sway,
then hush the light at dusk collects its grey.

A river mirrors skies molten gold,
its ripples slow, obedient and cold;
each stone reveals a tale the currents told,
each reed leans in like monks serene and old.

The wind becomes a painter, soft and wide,
brushing bronze calm beneath the paling skies;
the sun retreats with weary, embered eyes,
and wields its warmth before the evening dies.

The twilight quilts the orchards into rest,
violet folds laid gently on each crest;
the branches sigh, releasing fruit they blessed,
their quiet offerings drifting from the nest.

And in dusk, the slender deer appear,
their shapes like wandering thoughts that venture near;
they pause as though the fading world were dear,
then fades away as nights intent grows clear.

The stars ascend and stitch the dark with light,
their lullabies unspooling through the night;
the night exhales, surrendering to sleep's invite
while Autumn folds the earth in silken quiet.