Pumpkin Spice

Autumn utters her waking whispers,

As red cheeked apples grace the breeze;

With the heady scent of sun ripe promise,

From bended boughs of laden trees.

Here golden rod and purple aster,

Shift the spectrum of the scene;

From the pastel blush of garden grandeur,

To the compliment of Halloween.

But I will not embrace her fully,

Till green leaves transmute to shades of red;

And cicadas cease their dog-day droning,

To send their offspring down to bed.

No! I say to the sweet compulsion,

To cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and clove;

Be patient and await your season,

Of sweaters, blankets, hearth and stove.