Some say "Autumn"

Glade Creek Grist Mill, Babcock State Park, WVa.

Some say "Autumn" as a special word: "Autumn!"— 
   a joyous, gaudy, rainbow-sparkled display of excessiveness; 
   a right regal regaling of sight and sound, sense and smell—
and they would be right.

For off in the forested hills and hollows, ridges and rills 
   the sharp, crisp breath of Summer’s End comes, 
    tickling, trickling, traipsing, trilling round each leaf and limb,
        sheaf and stem,
   till Autumn’s playful palette paints the earth.

But some say "Fall" as a synonym— 
    and mean that Autumn merely is a time for leaves to drop,
         to plop, to droop, to tiredly slump,
   then mass together in ignoble heaps upon the lawn—
and they would be right.

For in the sun-encrusted valleys of the Far Out West, 
   Summer’s End comes not with biting breath,
   Summer’s End comes not with wintry whispers.
Rather Summer over stays her welcome.
Leaves grow tired and yellow, dusty and brown, 
    mottled, molded, mangy skeletons
                 of Spring’s once bright display, 
   each longing to shrink, shrivel, fade and drop,
   or be driven hard upon a dry north wind.

Yet here and there, and sometimes in between,  
   a sigh of "Autumn" comes and touches tenderly a tree or two, 
   and kisses hedge or  bush,     
        leaving blush and hush and innuendo of Summer’s Grand Adieu.

Some say "Autumn" and then say "Fall"
                   as if there is no difference there at all. 
    But rosy cheeks and jewel-struck hills
                  speak loudly to correct that error.
As Summer retires, renouncing and relinquishing her reign,    
    Autumn proudly receives honor from lesser Fall.
     —And that would be right!

- D. Benning

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This Poem set and performed in Aug, 2013.

Ohiopyle Park, Pennsylvania.  Photo by Michael McCumber.
http://www.michaelmccumber.com/pictures/ohiopyle-autumn20/