brown carpet of the forest floor
Cool temps now, not ready to freeze
in the rough, as we trek along,
They sprout like small emotional outbursts
calling for help or attention
Hunting for that delicate food,
be they Chantrelle, portobello,
or morele, brings delight to the soul
And upon a crash of thunder
and split second lightning flashes
arrives quickened rain, teasing
out summer's end
Retreating flowers still decorate
their heads
The beat goes on though, and fate
heralds autumn's decor
as testified to by Sonny and Cher
We hunker down, covering up our trails with
compost or wood chips
Odd souls find comfort in seasonal changes,
ever longing for the distinction
between the times
A hopeful generation, we,
reaching the autumn of our lives
Prone to gaze at a rosy reflections,
to succumb to the powers of
wood smoke or bay leaves steaming
We knew it wasn't right
and little has changed
Night is closer in now, fog rolling in -
we devour steamed mushrooms,
lush mussels with butter and bread,
in turn raising a glass of wine
The best of us didn't leave;
it was buried by the debris left,
still littering our clean forests
A childish government jealous
of it's own leader I believe
Sad, for it could be too late
to build anew, review,
- if by candlelight,
Be an advocate or scold them
with pen and paper
Struck by the smallness of the world
on a screen, we click to misfortunes
on a large world scale
We would rather look to mankind's best self,
but privately we weep -
Choices were made and we were not heard
for the din of disdain;
but we are still not satisfied
Deer and chipmunks grow thicker coats
as the woodpecker pounds his
five hundredth hole
....sated by the fields' harvest,
spent amid the smoking leaves -
we still try to find our peace
