Where the sumac burns its deep burgundy in Autumn,
And the eye-popping yellow oak leaves drift
Like dancing, whirling main sails torn from their masts
Left to fall and refresh the earth from which they rose,
We stop to drink in the cold, crisp air seasoned with wood smoke
From chimneys on brick houses full of warmth,
And dream of how the snow will soon blanket this canvas
So we can start to paint again.