Autumn is Coming!

I was pulling clothes off the line,
My back turned towards the late-morn’ sunshine,
When I noticed the west wind gently fluttering my quilt,
And the sunflowers in the fields beginning to wilt.
The distant mountains, now clear of Aurora’s mist,
Were nay longer Irish green, but yellow-kiss’d.
And a slight spicy scent was new in the air.
A few leaves on the trees were painted with care.
I took off towards the red-roofed cottage…

Autumn is coming! I shouted with delight,
As I threw my basket down, mid-flight.
Robert, my husband-to-be, looked up with a sigh,
Said he, why must you bring such joy nigh?
I froze, his lack of excitement a surprise.
He looked up from his book with quest’ning eyes.
I asked; how cannot you share in my cheer?
With the changing of the leaves so near?

He smiled, his peridot eyes aimed.
Are not you biased towards the season you’re named?
Autumn is a celebration of death.
Its ominous chill is Flora’s last breath.
We combat the cold by keeping a fire aflame,
But nurturing it is a most wearying game.
And moreover, I hate to bring in the harvest,
The foreshadow of my own ache and unrest,
Is this anticipated changing of the leaves.

With a hardy laugh, I replied:
The colder the weather, the warmer your bride!
And surely while you bring the harvest in,
You’ll make good use of the shawl I spin’d!
But since you choose to be pest,
Allow me to make autumn a season blessed.
Let us move our wedding from May,
To a fair mid-October’s day.

The day drew near, and at last it befell.
Friends were summoned by the church bell.
They gathered in a bonny room,
Ornate with red, orange, and yellow bloom.
Robert stood on stage in silvery gown,
Raven hair adorned with ivy crown.
The preacher opened up the Book.
The crowd turned with a lively look.
Together, the horns began humming.
And with a tear, Robert cheered, “Autumn is coming!”