A Poet Sings of Autumn

Song for Autumn
by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
   don't you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
   the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
   freshets of wind?  And don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy.
   warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come -- six, a dozen -- to sleep
   inside their bodies?  And don't you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
   the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow?  The pond
   vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
   its blue shadows.  And the wind pumps its
bellows.  And at evening especially,
   the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.