Burnt umber tumbles down in swirls

Gold is not hard to come by

It paints the edges of clouds in the sky

And whispered end of summer promise unfurls

Crimson paints flowers and twirls

On grass in leaves that die

To keep the seasons from going awry

And sweeps through crisp air in whirls

Wind smells of petrichor

Dirt is wetter

The crisp of tree limbs surround

Cinnamon and Apple treats we adore

Orange and cloves on the stove simmer

We have harvest abound