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 the air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees, especially those with

mossy hollows, are beginning 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 long blue shadows. The wind pumps its bellows.

And in the evening

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.