Praise the Gods

The land turns gold beneath the fading sun,
Where summer’s voice grows soft and done.
Maples blaze with scarlet flame,
And oaks wear bronze in autumn’s name.

Amber leaves drift through the sky,
Like embers falling as winds sigh.
Cooler mornings hush the land,
And daylight slips through time’s slow hand.

Across the meadows, wide and fair,
Rolls of hay rest everywhere—
Round as moons upon the ground,
Where quiet echoes are the only sound.

The hills wear cloaks of russet hue,
While distant woods fade into blue.
The geese cry out, their wings unfurled,
As autumn paints the sleeping world.

-Raysdottir