I still myself for the sounding crunch

Of pine cones and deciduous leaves

Falling, bouncing off the eaves

While squirrels bound to find their lunch

The softest noise, a tiny munch

The dying world, the crisp air grieves

And carries winter on its breeze

Causing bundled shoulders to scrunch

The smell of cinnamon and cloves

The hot chocolate brewed in daily droves

Future pies picked from the groves

Boots worn in the dark and cold

Until noonday sun we do behold

They call it autumn, or so I’m told.