Days of gold

Golden days, few and precious.

Roads are made in leaves under the tree.  

     Trucks, rakes, balls half-buried in the piles.

           

Orange, reds, and yellows curl and crisp and turn to brown.

And still the trees are full of blazing flags... 

       their rustled thankfulness is on the wind.

My soul quiets to the sound.

Sunbeams filter down in Autumn angles 

     through the canopy of leaves.

Kaleidoscopes of brilliant, dancing patterns on the grass. 

     The baby laughs and tries to catch the light.

Moments to treasure when the color fades 

      and all is gray…

          or is this Joy a gift for just today?

O soul, rejoice!

My whispered praise is added to the wind.

                                      ~Sara~