I took a walk on o’er the hill.
The autumn breeze raked trees with chill.
They stood against the winter’s will,
And my will barred it, too.

I did not want its ice or snow,
Not high on hill or far below;
Perhaps the fall could fell this foe
And colors win, more true.

But wind came from the farthest North,
And quelled rebellion, then sent forth
A snow that snatched the leaves’ self-worth;
They on the ground accrued.

We cannot hold to reds and golds,
Nor stop the winds that make us old;
Yet, as I watched what’s cold unfold,
I longed for spring I knew.

Eric M. Vogt
Copyright 2016