Written for the Perfect Shakespearean Sonnet Contest
From day to day, the leaves drop to the lawn,
like fallen soldiers in a final stand.
Fair streaks of morning kiss the rising dawn
as winter’s chill is winking at the land.
The autumn equinox and fading sun
stir harvest songs in farmers of the south.
The boys of workers always love to run.
An old mule’s munching hay, with smiling mouth.
A burning wood fire wafts the waning day.
The brittle rattle of the stalks of corn
and pungent smell of freshly winnowed hay
bring me an early glimpse of winter’s morn.
When autumn breezes bid the branches part,
fierce fires of color dwell within my heart.