Autumn

Now the light comes in at angles
that the summer never knew,
golden in the ways that morning
cannot quite contain or see through.

The trees have dressed for leaving
in their finest, briefest wear—
crimson, ochre, amber, russet,
color scattered everywhere.

I could mourn the green of summer,
or I can look at what remains:
beauty happens in the leaving,
glory lives in autumn's rains.
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