The Golden Hour

Have you felt the chill of fall?

It’s come this way before.

See! it gathers over hills.

September comes once more.

Cooler mornings changing shifts

With eighty-degree days,

‘Til there comes October-land,

And sweater weather stays.

Nimble flowers bow their heads

And trees turn shades of gold.

Nothing lives that doesn’t rest:

This truth is sweet and old.

I feel the chill—my spirit stills

And seeks a warming hearth.

The golden hour has returned

To our part of the earth.