Autumn’s hue is dying the trees
Flecks of gold and orange and red
Creeping slowly among the leaves.
Autumn’s weather is blowing on through
Temperatures dropping, cold winds humming
Cloudy skies blocking
Autumn’s paintbrushes are splashing in the morn
One wide stroke sweeping a swath
Of brilliant bright red
Causing a fire to erupt
Autumn’s signs are creeping in
She’s coming alive.