The autumn wind does not caress
Like the gentle cooling summer breeze.
It whips and lashes with duress,
And taunts and bullies without surcease.
Whatever stands is under stress;
The wind is a peril in the trees.
It lifts the surface of the field
And scatters it in other places;
And having rendered thus the yield,
It flings the grit against our faces.
Whatever’s covered is revealed,
And vacant sites are stripped of traces.
The wind of autumn shakes the walls
And rattles anything left hanging;
It screams and tears around and squalls,
And gathers things and sends them clanging.
The leaves, as if some proctor calls,
Go chattering, like children ganging.
Could be the grief of Mother Earth,
Her gentle nature could be turning;
For something presses at the girth,
The forest in the hills now burning.
The clime foreshadows death and birth
And waits to see what we are learning.