Poetry Sunday: Song for Autumn by Mary Oliver

We are now well into autumn, although you might not be able to tell it by a visit to my yard. But, in fact, the leaves are beginning to fall from those trees that lose their leaves. The big live oaks in our front yard never give theirs up but the Shumard red oak is beginning to look a bit bare, as are some of the backyard trees. And many of the other plants in the yard are beginning to wind down their season and get ready to go to sleep for the winter. I wonder if we'll have a real winter this year. We should get the firewood ready, just in case. 

Song for Autumn

by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.