The Golden Hour

Have you felt the chill of fall?
It’s come this way before.
See! it gathers over hills.
September comes once more.

Cooler mornings changing shifts
With eighty-degree days,
‘Til there comes October-land,
And sweater weather stays.

Nimble flowers bow their heads
And trees turn shades of gold.
Nothing lives that doesn’t rest:
This truth is sweet and old.

I feel the chill—my spirit stills
And seeks a warming hearth.
The golden hour has returned
To our part of the earth.

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