You remember the early
moments of autumn.
Summer had faded.
The leaves were eerie.
A trolley came.
A deer jumped into
a rosebush.
A buck stopped.
AUTUMN
By Bruce Hamilton
The holly bush has hushed,
and we feel readier for mistletoe.
As the doors close, the wind blows.
Timely tepidness descends
in the fragrance of the season.
As usual, your shirt looks pressed.
AUTUMN LEAVES
By Bruce Hamilton
The leaves that the maple evinces
soon mirror the brightness of quinces.
Each falling leaf sends
a world of such trends
as have half the fatness of blintzes.
GOLDEN LEAVES By Bruce Hamilton
Autumnal announcers were saying
that the leaves were falling.
Fall had entered a scene
that always was either
brown or bright. The colors
had intensified the obvious
tendency toward mellowness.
AUTUMN
By Bruce Hamilton
The leaves and a tuna fish gurgled
that nature is a sweet pickle.
Nature replied. Nature thoroughly
gave answer. Nature turned as
yellow as something that might
help a daffodil return. A mailman
dropped a dolly's lashes.
A mustache told a van to go.
Color had a jaundiced fit.
SOFT AUTUMN By Bruce Hamilton
I recognize the tang in the air
and am happy the fall has
returned. The sharpness
of the season presents a glow
as gentle as the smoothness
of ancient cigars. You asked
me the reason the children quail.
They quail at the perfect
harmony of the leaving leaf.
AUTUMN INTERLUDE By Bruce Hamilton
Theories abound on how
the years re-endow
a sudden surmise
regarding the skies.
Upward turn eyes.
A tree re-supplies
efforts ever stranger.
Life, an arranger,
senses a chill
possessed with skill.
AUTUMN COLLECTION By Bruce Hamilton
Gathering several bright leaves
somewhat slowly weaves
a tapestry of glory.
This little a story
can't begin to fell
the trees and the bushes.
SEPTEMBER By Bruce Hamilton
