The leaves fade to umber
    And descend on the wind
    Where they turn pirouettes
    And fall soft to the ground
    Reach out with a slow
    Swollen, arthrtic hand
    In the hope to catch just one
    As a memory to hold
    Gone to seed, has the meadow
    Where the blackbirds still flock
    But shall linger no longer
    Came a call to take flight
    And your face, the reflection
    In the pond looks so gray
    And the lines have gone deeper
    Since the last time you came
    There's a chill in the whisper
    Of an old friend from abroad
    October is speaking
    And you welcome him home