Down the back of the wind
A lone leaf glides
It's work and privilege, both
Saying fall no longer hides.

Air as fresh as millenia
Turns and sways,
Making a tune, an ode
To all the passing days.

Now calls the lune!
The geese flying by
Are intent to the cause:
To their summer must fly.

Feel the chill climbing
From fingers to face?
Again comes the autumn
To the whole human race.