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.