BEGGING AUTUMN

FOSTER HUDSON

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some trees, reticent in their reddening leaves, 
are still mostly green, swaying with a soft sound 
in the nipping breeze. other trees, 
too weak in the branches, let their leaves turn 

to amber. these leaves, scattered 
until they are inevitably sanctioned 
into piles, make a shhhhhh under my shoes. 
these leaves are a lullaby. 

passing through the sepia path,
i repeat the rhythm of these leaves
among patterns of bark.
a horned lark, shrouded by many shades

of beige, makes a sound and echoes
through this autumn scene’s canals, ricocheting 
off every trunk: the smell of maple 
and dirt and what once was lush. 

hush now, says the season, everything fades
in time. autumn to winter to spring to summer:
then back to autumn. impermanence is 
the name nature was never given. 

autumn, i am begging you,
​exhaling from my heart,
tracing my eyes across all this amber, 
to hurry up and turn to winter.