Come thou Indian summer,
come blow your warm return,
yellow-orange its embers,
the sassafras will burn
’til barren of its leaflets
and on the ground they blaze,
but as the wind chimes tussle,
they are doused in godly grace,
and there, they lie like ashes,
cold – and frozen still
the summer quickly passes
as the winter lay uphill.
saunterings 