Autumnus you were named

Autumnus you were named by the Ancient of Days.

Your smell is of earth in hospice.

Flesh and bones decay to promise renewal.

Your cold breath strips leaves whose time has come

         and branches groan, It is time.  It is time.

You paint the earth with a pallet of blood tones.

You prepare the canvas for the white cloak of Winter.

We celebrate you with feasts and goblins.

You must forgive our childish prattle

       and tolerate our simpleton gestures.

We call you Fall out of our ignorance.

Your pulse promises resurrection.

It is time.

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