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.
August 26, 1975
Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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