Autumn has come in all of its glory;
The evening shadows grow deeper.
Bounty is won, and low sinks the sun
As everything waits for the Reaper.
Turkey and pheasant and duck on the wing
Never know when Archer’s arrows will sing.
Deer in the field stand ready to run,
Waiting the sound of the Huntsman’s gun.
The sun starts His yearly descent into death
As Earth turns from giver to keeper.
Like a child at the breast, we start into our rest —
And everything waits for the Reaper.
Apples stand waiting in bushel and sack
To someday be applesauce, cider and jack.
Wheat turns to flour and barley to beer –
The Green Man has done all His growing this year.
Cellars and larders are bursting with bounty —
Nothing on branch, root, or creeper.
Growing is done; the harvest begun —
Now everything waits for the Reaper.