As the first frost neared, the water overflowed
with reflected color of summer’s demise
High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—
alone—floating, turning, then softly at home
Autumn silently ran among the towers,
forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps
In shimmering glory they cascaded down,
shattering to rest at the tree roots below
There, at last, by the river and on the curb,
the vestiges of yesterday piled together
They shift in the wind and await the first snow,
wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.
Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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