Fall to Me by Rebecca Moll

Summer clings,
yet Autumn sings,
a distant trumpet trill.

Curling leaves,
trees that heave,
fields that weave,
bronze and tawny hue.

Scurry squirrels haste about,
manic with the clock.
A shift, a change, a rendering to stock.

Oh, distant winds of hope and peace,
seasons for us all,
Fall to me thy Winter's sleep
and Spring again for all.