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.
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.